


I Love You, Natasha Romanoff

by flight_on_broken_wings



Series: What ISN'T Going into the Final Mission Report [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Clintasha Week, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Fraction!Clint, Friends to Lovers, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov-centric, Nick Fury Knows All, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Romance, SHIELD, Slow Burn, Strike Team Delta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 96,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight_on_broken_wings/pseuds/flight_on_broken_wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, both spies, assassins, and elite SHIELD agents turned Avengers (though Clint isn't really sure how that ever happened), have to learn how to deal with increasingly complicated professional lives while their personal lives start to get in the way. On the trail of an international arms dealer that seems to always stay one step ahead of SHIELD, they start to realize they are falling for each other- the hard way- and have to deal with the consequences. Obviously, problems arise, because for Strike Team Delta, it just wouldn't be any fun if everything actually went according to the plan. </p><p>When their mission goes wrong, can it, and their partnership, be salvaged? Or have their lives spiraled too far out of control?<br/>Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here's to Dramatic Entrances

He was used to the wide eyed stares and gaping mouths that followed him; it came along with the job. Clint glided down the stark white hallway of SHIELD headquarters. Having just jumped out of the helicopter that retrieved him from his extraction point after a rather complicated mission, he was in full combat gear. In his SHIELD tactical uniform, he had his bow and quiver of high tech arrows slung across his back, as well as an additional, yet mostly depleted quiver strapped to his belt and hanging at his side, a handgun strapped to his right leg and another in his belt on his left side along with a half dozen clips of ammo, a set of sleek throwing blades in the back of his belt and another large combat knife strapped to the outside of his calf.

It could have been his body language and the 'get in my way and I will snap your neck' look he was sporting that was attracting the stares, or even just being who he was: Agent Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, one of the highest clearance level field operatives, assassin and spy, member of the most elite SHIELD Strike Team Delta, and latest addition to his resumé, Avenger. However, it was more likely the attention was due to the fact that he had a complete arsenal with him and was covered in soot, grime, and cuts and bruises, but also was splattered with a great deal of blood across his chest, arms, neck, and one side of his face. To put it quite simply, he looked like a 90’s slasher horror film put through a blender, however he was actually pretty content with having only sustained very minor injuries, given his tendency for “recklessness”, according to Natasha. (Apparently gracefully falling off of buildings while being incredibly heroic and awesome is his fault- hey, it came with the job title, and he had health coverage, courtesy of SHIELD, so no worries the way he saw it.) Also, he was on the ground level which was occupied by the lowest level security clearances; secretaries, boring office workers, techies, and the level 1 agents, which could easily be identified because they looked like they had just walked off the set of Men in Black, with the slick black suits and ties and shiny black shoes that clicked with each step that they all wore to look more important than they actually were. (And that no self-respecting, decent, even moderate level agent would be caught dead in- seriously it was like they were just broadcasting ‘look at me, super secret special agent over here.’) So, overall, yeah, he was turning heads.

Upon approaching the high security restricted elevator that went deep down into the earth to all of the more classified levels such as the labs, operations base, specialized storage, training rooms, quarters for field agents, and Director Fury's office (he was currently working out of the New York division SHIELD headquarters, where Clint was right now, not the Triskelion in D.C.), where Clint was going now, Clint chased off an obviously clearance level 1 suit stationed at the elevator (resembling a bomb shelter Clint had seen in Russia) who had the brilliant notion to try and stop and question him, probably about something as trivial as identity and security access and all that, in accordance with protocol. He quickly backed down after an intense look from Clint; a smart move, because let’s just saw he really was not in the mood.

He stepped inside and hit the correct floor button, and after typing in his eight digit code, and finally taking the necessary hand and iris scanners, his identity and access level were confirmed and the doors began to close. Turning around with his back to the wall and feet planted, he watched as the staring-non-too-subtly faces disappeared behind the solid closing doors.

After the familiar feeling of descent subsided at the floor level of Fury's office and the doors glided open, Clint stepped out onto the black marble gleaming from the fluorescent lights. This time the people he passed where all agents with clearance levels very close to his own, and seeing as they were busy with boring stuff like paperwork- oh god, the paperwork Hill was going to make him do on this one, christ- and had seen before or been in Clint's current position, they didn't rudely stare but greeted him with quick glances and curt nods which Clint was grateful for. No spy trained in espionage and conditioned to remain in the shadows appreciates being the center of attention, and he was feeling a bit awkward in his current state of affairs, but Clint’s general motto for life was ‘if it makes me uncomfortable, well it has gotta be worse for everyone else’. Yep. That never failed to make him feel better.

Suddenly a fiery-haired slim figure in a black tactical suit pushed off the wall and came to a stop directly in front of Clint.

"Hey Clint, bad day?" Natasha asked with a small, evil grin developing on her face and a twinkle of humor in her eyes. Seeing that he was not actually hurt and she detected no other complicated emotions that come along with missions that got difficult in more than one way (and she was proud that only she could see through the cold mask Barton wore to shield his true emotions), she was not deterred by his rough exterior and proceeded to make fun of his obviously uncomfortable plight.

"What? Did a building collapse on you? Honestly I’m surprised you’re not looking worse- no dumpster to fall gracefully into this time? Or maybe that’s the smell I’m picking up on."

He snorted in frustration, rolling his eyes somewhat excessively, and stared her down, not quite as amused as she was. Clint was one of the rare few that could look the infamous Natasha Romanoff, deadly assassin, seductress, SHIELD agent, and Avenger- also one kick ass partner and his best friend without a doubt- in the eyes. He moved around her and continued walking. She fell into step besides him.

He didn’t skip a pace, responding as he went. "Actually, yes, wouldn’t you guess- ah, to the building falling on me bit, not the dumpster part. You really need to let that go, Tasha, it was one time, Christ.” He carried on. “A three story cement, steel, and glass international arms dealer's storage compound, by the way. Didn't exactly all go as planned- but totally not my fault."

If the Black Widow was alarmed at this, she didn't show it. But Clint liked to think she was mildly concerned for his well-being. 

"Sounds unfortunate, all that wasted merchandise..." she sighed, sparing a silent moment of consideration for all of the fun toys and weaponry lost in the arms compound.

Clint smiled a genuine smile at her concern for the weapons destroyed in the explosion rather than for him being caught in it. He knew her, and that was to be expected. It was actually kinda endearing, in a really odd way that only came from having been friends with her for so long now.

"Actually not all of it went to waste. Came across a box of assorted handguns and whatchamacallits and found a next generation Kel-Tec P-32 that made me think of you," he sing-songed toyingly, looking sideways at her and taking the tiny caliber weapon out of his belt, offering it to her.

"Oh really? Hmm... blued finish... nice weight to it... fixed sights... locked-breech... 10 round magazine... no serial number… perfect size for that cute clutch Pepper got me last week." She was still keeping pace with him, looking intently at the small gun she was turning over in her hands.

“Oh, have you seen her recently? How is she?” Shifting to such a mundane discussion, one would have thought they were chilling at a local Starbucks, not walking down the halls of a super secret government facility,one of them still basically covered in blood and bits of building, mind you.

“Fine, we went out for lunch a while back, it having been my birthday and all. At least someone remembered.” She huffed, putting a bit more sass in her strut.

"Um, excuse you, I wasn’t even in the country for the last two weeks Nat. I would have called, but I was a little busy, ya know, being shot at and blown up and shit- plus, you know how Hill gets when we ‘misappropriate company equipment for personal means’. By the way, that little pea-shooter counts for Christmas and your birthday, seeing as I almost died getting it.” Playing up the drama never hurt.

Natasha snorted. "What? I may forgive you for your latency, but that in no way excuses you from the further required gift giving, I’ll have you know. And, you mean how Hill gets when you misuse the tech- honestly you couldn’t wait until after we got back to check your damn cats on that Neko whatever thing? "

"I’ll have you know, that it’s Neko Atsume, and it’s very time sensitive- I didn’t have a choice. And come on Nat, you've said the exact same thing before, remember when my birthday rolled around a few years ago, with the Dragunov and that one guy with the piercings and you-"

Before Clint could get another word in edgewise, Natasha stalked off, feigning indignation and ignorance. She stopped a short ways away, and turned back, smiling sweetly.

"Oh, and Clint, you've got a little something on your face. Just right there..."

And with that, she turned her back once again. Sighing, he was just immature enough to mock her a little behind her back. Without even looking back though, Natasha held up her arm and very pointedly gave him the finger. Damn, she knew him too well. Smiling begrudgingly, Clint swiped some of the grime from his face. Yeah, he really needed a shower. And a nap. And some coffee. But maybe coffee first. Reaching up, he adjusted his hearing aids- not his old BTEs either, but some fancy shit Stark had whipped up, smaller, that fit easily within his ears, picked up a higher range, and had a built in comms system, which was pretty cool.

Clint's mind returned to the task at hand: finding the Director.


	2. Here's to Shitty Day Jobs

He had taken the time to un-equip and put all his weapons back in their rightful places except for his throwing blades, which he was pretty attached to, to be honest, and the handgun holstered now holstered at his right side which he always carried with him. (He really didn’t care for guns, much preferring one of his bows, however sometimes a bow and quiver was just inconvenient and a hassle to carry around) He had spared the time to clean them all up properly and lock them away; when it came to the tools of his trade, the archer was meticulous. However, he had not yet cleaned himself up- really at this point his dismal state was all the better for pissing Fury off when he got to him. 

“Agent Barton, you cannot go in there, debrief is scheduled fo- Agent Barton!” The slightly muffled voice carried through into the Director’s office. Without much more warning than that, Clint nearly knocked the door to the director's office off its hinges as he barged inside. To his credit, the Director showed no reaction whatsoever- but hell, that was the usual- and if anything he looked a little bored like this was a regular occurrence, which to be fair, it had happened before.

"Here for the debrief, Agent Barton? You usually aren't this quick about it," Fury remarked rather exhaustedly, not bothering to look up. Clint took it as a sign of their long time friendship that the permanently-scowling man didn’t have him dragged away and detained for barging into his office, which was a big no-no, and happened to be something only he and Natasha got away with. (More likely though, it was because doing so would literally do nothing to change the unwanted barging-in behavior, and only give him reason to complain for the millennium, plus, he was kinda important, Avenger and all, so he got a little leeway and damn it if he wasn’t going to push every rule there ever was to be pushed.)

Clint stood directly in front of the desk, arms crossed and scowling, while the Director swiveled his chair to face him. After pausing to take in the state of his agent, Fury frowned, definitely in concern for his well-being, yep, concern, not at all just the fact he was a little disgusted with him looking like roadkill was dragged into his pristine office.

Clint plopped into a chair across from the one-eyed menace. It was not at all comfortable- mostly cold metal. (The general consensus was that the Director didn’t put nicer, more comfortable chairs in his office so people wouldn’t feel inclined to stay there longer than necessary, but Clint was of the opinion that the infamous one-eyed penetrating glare was enough to ensure anyone in their right mind wouldn’t stay longer than absolutely necessary) He regretted the drama as soon as did it, his still mostly fresh bruises and stiff muscles aching in protest. He winced at the discomfort. 

"Is there some reason you couldn't take a shower fir-"

"They knew." Clint interrupted, another thing no one else dared do, except Natasha, and occasionally Hill when there was a crisis. "That ‘high level classification super important don’t-fucking-mess-this-up-Barton’ assignment you sent me on in Nicaragua? Vakhrov, the dealer, he had to have known I was coming, or at least knew when I was there. He rigged the place to blow with his lieutenants still inside- I mean who the fuck does that? Even if he didn’t give a shit about his people, all of that merchandise, just-" he cut himself off to mimic an explosion with his hands. “Nat was right, what a shame.”

Fury looked slightly troubled at this- he liked to think so- but he was probably just thinking about how the chair would have to be burned and scraped after this. Either way, he seemed interested enough to put aside whatever paperwork- goddamnit paperwork again- he was looking at and do the debrief early. "And the launch codes? Did the buyer show up?"

"No. Vakhrov and the codes gone by the time I could do anything, however I found the buyer, and his bodyguards, dead. Point blank, execution style. The suits with him were hired trigger-fingers, Slovic probably, based on the prison-ink. Looks like Vakhrov killed him and those poor bastards when he figured out SHIELD got wind of the deal." He paused for a moment, looking at Fury intently. "What the hell happened, Fury? Because I know that was not my fuck up- like, I know I say that a lot, but I mean it this time. Unfortunate consequences to me aside, everything was going according to plan until suddenly it didn’t, and I’ve seen quite a few missions go wrong in my long and not-so-flawless career, so I know when one goes wrong the right way or goes wrong the wrong way… If that… makes sense." Well, that sentence started off pretty well, before the rambling.

"Hmmm..." The director was lost in thought for a moment. "I'll look into it. Vakhrov will have to find a new buyer, which he won't do until he’s found a secure location and covered all his bases. That’ll buy us some time. In the meantime, you and Agent Romanoff are on hold. This is no longer a solo assignment. Don't go far."

This was an obvious dismissal, which Clint took gratefully. He needed a shower desperately, and some down time honestly didn't sound so bad. Just on his way out the door though, Fury called out.

"Oh, and Agent Barton, seeing as you two won't be busy for the rest of the week, you will both be assisting Connolly and Miller with this year's recruitment reviews and training for potential field agents, just out of the Academy. They're on the second sub-floor, training gym 2. You'd best get over there now. I'll send Agent Romanoff after I brief her on the situation."

Clint groaned on the inside, then deciding there was no reason sot to voice his displeasure, also groaned on the outside. He hated dealing with new recruits, and Natasha hated it more.

"Sir, are you sure this is necessary? For the potentials' sakes, there's really no nee-"

"New recruits, not fresh meat. This is SHIELD, Agent Barton, not a fraternity. Act as such, both of you."

After Clint left, Fury picked up the phone. "Fetch Agent Romanoff immediately and send her in." They had a lot to talk about.

Oh god, this was going to be so, so shitty.


	3. Here's to Psychological Warfare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is only beta-ed by myself... please be forgiving of any errors if you see them

Leaving Fury’s office, whatever was left of his positive attitude after being nearly blown to hell, shot at, mildly stabbed, and also having had a building dropped on him a mere 9 hours ago, and then not being able to wash off the gore, was quite gone. It was times like these, when he was pretty sick with the world, that he took the liberty of shutting it out. He took out his aids and tucked them in a pocket, letting the muffled quiet surround him; when he could spare his hearing, meaning he felt he wasn’t in a potentially life-threatening, hearing dependent atmosphere, such as the bowels of SHIELD HQ, ignoring everything and everyone for a short while was a welcome reprieve. Plus, only he and Natasha really knew ASL, so it was like a big middle finger to everyone when they had no idea if or when they were talking about them right in front of their faces. But hey, they could pick up a damn book and learn it if they wanted too. Funny though, he had never felt like taking his aids out intentionally, for any amount of time really, since New Yor- no, no he wasn’t gonna think about that.

Clint had actually been excited about a reprieve from missions when Fury suggested it, for those five seconds before he went and ruined it. The last time he had time off was... well... a long time ago. After the Incident actually, but dammit brain, he didn’t want to think about that, so he forcefully shoved those unwelcome thoughts out of his head. Even when they were injured in the field, they were given the bare minimum number of days to recover. For the most part this was because there were very few if any agents that could handle the types of missions Natasha and he, Strike Team Delta, took on, but he also felt it was because Fury hated them. This, test-running recruits to find out who breaks and who stays, or whole passes and goes on to be a field agent and who becomes a desk jockey, was not the type of work they did, and another example of Fury extracting his revenge for all of the grievances they had caused him. Although they were the most effective team SHIELD ever had, not to brag or anything, he and Natasha had a history of causing political turmoil, in the field and out. Neither of them were very diplomatic. And by that he meant 0/10, would not recommend for issues that could not be solved by a well placed arrow or bullet, or maybe a little C-4.

Still, Clint had no idea why Fury would assign them to babysitting duty. Clint and Natasha, especially Natasha, were known to have very little patience for this kind of thing. Actually they were known to start betting rings on which potentials would drop and when, which was probably worse; it was actually quite a lucrative business for the two agents, who both had a very good sense for people and their mental and physical capacities, which is also why they excelled at analyzing recruits despite the fact they both despised it. (Still, just because they were good at it didn’t make it a good idea.) Anyway, that's what the recruiting process was designed to do; push the potentials physically and mentally until they break, then weed out the ones that didn't last long enough or wouldn't make it as agents. No one was meant to survive recruitment month unscathed. 

Clint punched in the code and shoved through the door into the training gym. 'Training gym' doesn't quite describe the underground field tactics training room he just stepped into. Each gym had a specific layout for different aspects of training. N1 was the largest and built like a city block with empty concrete buildings as tall as three stories, designed for urban warfare and team tactics (or a really great game of paintball). N2, where he was headed, was designed for combat training with room for hand-to-hand sparring and a shooting range. N3 was designed as a physical fitness, coordination, and speed training zone, with a complex electronically operated obstacle course of sorts with dozens of levels, variations, and difficulties. N4 was the smallest, designed for psychological training and interrogation techniques, both as a captor and captive. Really, it was just a hallway linking white panel rooms with one-way mirrors and really uncomfortable chairs. Finally, N5 was not a single gym but a maze of rooms, hallways, and passages with 3 floors, a center room with a 3 story ceiling, walls ringed with fenced in walkways on each floor, vents and air ducts, various sliding doors, and other creative ways of getting around, as well as command center where the instructors could control the lights, alarms, and speakers and watch the participants on the multiple screens through the dozens of cameras hidden around. 5 had the most uses, but was basically for stealth training either with a team or individually. Sometimes they would pit teams against each other, give them specific goals like extracting a mark, escaping confinement, or taking out targets. Gym 5 was definitely a favorite, even if all of the technology meant paintball was strictly prohibited.

Clint intended to get a shower, finally, in the locker rooms attached to the gym before becoming acquainted with the potentials, but after stepping into the gym he realized that all thirty or so of the possible field-recruits-to-be and the two usual instructors, Agents Connolly and Miller, were gathered in the middle of the sparring section's padded floors only 15 meters from the main entrance, and they all turned and were looking directly at yours truly. Welp. Clint decided to make the most of the situation and make his first impression more interesting. He continued his approach, an easy grin stretching across his face as if he himself had no idea the state he was in, taking his time to survey each potential.

He eyed the crowd gathered in front of him and watched their reactions, expertly seeing through facial expressions and body language. Miller and Connolly stared for a moment, frowning disapprovingly, and turned back to face the potentials, whose responses were more diverse. First the majority of them showed surprise as they registered the blood and muck, and a few were disgusted. Most quickly recovered and struggled to hide their reactions, not quite sure if this was a test, or perhaps an ordinary occurrence. They should last, Clint noted. From a few however he saw great unease and uncertainty, even a touch of fear. Nope, they'll be among the first to go.

Let the psychological warfare begin.

He stopped 5 yards short of them, memorizing their faces. "Sorry I'm late, had some...business to attend to. Fury filled you two in?" He turned and addressed Miller and Connolly with a lazy wave of his hand. 

When Miller sighed, rubbing his temple, Clint turned his attention to the portly older man. He wasn’t half bad at lip reading when he had a good angle and could focus, like when he didn’t have to worry about bullets flying his way. "Yes, we're just starting with introduction to the program.” He paused, looking Clint up and and down, grimacing in distaste. “Now, I’m sure you’ve had quite a day, Barton, so we’ve got this."

"Great, not like I wanna be here anyway, but orders are orders, so here I am, ready to help." Clint nodded to the agents, throwing in a flirty wink and reveling in their discomfort while walking backward toward the locker rooms; he was still going deaf, and didn’t want to miss anything. Just before turning the corner Connolly called out.

"Wait, Barton, should we still be expecting your partner?" The way he said ‘your partner’, like daring to whisper her name would summon the demoness and invoke her wrath, had him struggling to contain a smirk- there was probably something wrong with him if he loved the fear Natasha put in everyone around.

He called back,"She's in a briefing, will be down in a bit, but I’ll tell her you’re glad she could make it." With a flourish he spun and let the door swing shut behind him; he didn't need to look to know what the agents were thinking.

"Oh, great..." Both agents exchanged concerned looks. Both were familiar with Natasha's lack of patience for potentials and fresh agents alike and were obviously expecting trouble. He was pretty sure there was an actual memo sent out, declaring that Agent Romanoff, and thus Agent Barton by default, were under no circumstances whatsoever to be placed on assignment with agents having less than three years of field experience under their belts, for... reasons... While Clint disliked it too, he had more social skills than his partner and was better at managing his impatience in a less violent way, but he wasn’t going to criticize her for her particular choice brand of anger management.

The locker rooms were empty. After stripping out of his combat gear, he tossed it aside in a pile, turned the shower on, and stepped under the warm spray of water. Ugh, gross. The water ran murky off his body, a wonderful mix of blood, dirt and dust, and god knows what else. Still, the warm spray did wonders for his aching muscles, and never underestimate the effect of feeling actually clean after weeks of crawling around through the jungle and less favorable parts of Central America, or, you know, after being splattered with some choice bits of another human being that were meant to stay inside said human being. It had been half an hour since he got off the extraction chopper at SHIELD headquarters, and in that time, the blood and dirt had become pretty unbearable. His skin had begun to crawl in the worst possible way, but still, he’d had worse. 

Stepping out of the shower after a good long rinse- he was sure Miller and Connolly were not impatiently awaiting his return- Clint ran a towel through his damp hair and shook his head to make it lay flat. Damn, it was getting a little long, and he had about a week’s worth of scruff about his face he could do without. He threw on a black, close fitting t-shirt, grey cargo pants, and his dull black combat boots from his locker and inspected a few of his deeper cuts, satisfied that nothing required stitches. He did wrap his forearm where he was grazed by a bullet earlier that day however before re-equipping his handgun and knife. Then fetching a spare razor from his locker, he tidied himself up a bit, and put his aids back in, mood greatly lifted. With one last glance at the mirror to make sure he looked his usual dashing self, after appropriately disposing of his gear where all other blood soaked hazardous materials went, he left the dimly lit locker rooms and joined the potentials, Miller, and Connolly in the main area of the gym.

When he stepped back into the fluorescent lighting, eyes quickly adjusting, he was greeted by the sight of Natasha standing on the back of the neck of a young man, one of the potentials, with one hand grabbing his wrist and forcing his arm straight up into the air which bent his shoulder and back into a very painful position. He’d seen the move before, executed flawlessly and effortlessly, but wasn’t really concerned because it was one of the few that wasn’t in her inventory under the label ‘fatal’ or ‘will permanently maim’, just beneath ‘reserved for annoying pieces of shit’.Miller and Connolly stood off to the side, wisely not intervening. Huffing quietly to himself at his partner's inability to go 10 minutes without assaulting anyone, he approached much less cautiously than anyone else who would dare to near the Black Widow when she was playing a game of cat and mouse.

"Nat, maybe we can go without dislocating any shoulders today- but if you’ve really gotta, then maybe just don’t snap any necks? Yeah?"

Natasha jerked his arm, making the guy on the ground cry out. "You worry too much, Barton. Relax, I was just introducing myself, and explaining how catcalling is grounds for sexual harassment charges here at SHIELD, which is something we professionals take seriously" she smiled maliciously, jerking his arm again and pushing his face harder into the ground.

"I get it, sorry, sorry," he managed to grunt, words distorted by the mat in his face.

"Good." Natasha released her hold on him, stepping over his body and walking over to join her partner. "What are you still doing on the floor? Get up."

The guy scrambled to his feet and stepped in with the others, who had distanced themselves, going to join the side of a buddy of his who was making a show of rolling his eyes- ooh, how brave of him. Clint couldn’t wait to see how this played out over the course of the next week. 

Clint glanced over at Natasha and caught her attention, then as Miller and Connolly jumped back into business by opening up the weapons room and starting the day's session which centered on shooting, accuracy, speed, reaction timing, etc, etc, blah blah blah, the two carried on a conversation in sign language.

'You couldn’t wait ten minutes?' Clint signed with a few movements and a slight tilt of the head and raised eyebrow.

Natasha smiled back, a placating gesture, shaking her head in exasperation. 'These kind’s of things have to be dealt with in a timely manner.'

Clint nodded knowingly. It was well within her right to beat the living daylights out of some potential, fresh from the academy or some other outlet and still green behind the ears, if they chose to ill-advisedly remark on her status as a female instructor or agent, or her appearance as a woman in general. Natasha had earned his respect a long time ago, and as such, he’d be damned if he didn’t let her do what she needed to do to maintain that same level of respect from anyone else, no matter how harshly she chose to do so. He knew it wasn’t easy for her at first- she came into the game at SHIELD in what was a field occupied by mostly macho-type guys, and she had carved out a place for herself right up with everyone else, and in fact went on the surpass them. And if anyone didn’t show his partner the respect she was due, he’d drop them in a matter of seconds. What could he say- she was his partner, and he had her back.

Miller had directed the potentials to the rows of booths across from the weapons targets and the ricochets of gunshots had begun to carry around the gym. 

‘Did they see you before you cleaned yourself up?’ Natasha signed.

‘Yeah, as soon as I walked in. I made sure to make the most of it.’ The corners of her mouth twitched up in the ghost of a smile.

‘How did they react?’ She smiled devilishly.

‘Pretty much what's expected.’ His eyes wandered back and forth across the line of young men and women warming up at the shooting lanes, which not only had a target mounted at the far side but had panels moving side to side, forward and back, and slid up out of the floor to about chest height before retreating quickly again. He continued. ‘A few were somewhat successful at maintaining their composures, most were quite surprised but recovered quickly enough, and a handful, well, I give them three days. Can’t be afraid of a little blood in this line of work’ he finished with a flurry of signs.

"Hmm," Natasha considered carefully, before continuing. ‘Do you think it would be 'unprofessional', so to say, if we got in on the betting with the other guys from rapid response?’

‘None of them would go in on it with us this time because we're the current aiding instructors Nat. They would think we rigged it.’ 

‘Not that we would ever do that.’ She insisted, smirk playing out across her face.

‘No,’ Clint agreed, face completely serious but both knew he was being sarcastic, ‘never.’ They had been suspected of leaning on some newbies harder than others to get the desired outcome, but no one had ever proven anything. 

A moment passed as the two watched Agents Miller and Connolly directing the ‘potentials’, which was as far as they were allowed to take it, rather than referring to them as some other fun nicknames the two had coined that had gotten passed around and had affectionately been adopted by quite a few agents but that were frowned upon by the Director and other disapproving parties. ‘Fresh bloods’, ‘newbies’, ‘ducklings’, and ‘buttercups’ were but a few of the more benign ones, and, after a few days, Clint was sure they could get away with those. 

Natasha and Clint stood off to the side with no intention of getting involved in directing the thirty odd recruits quite yet. Miller and Connolly handled it just fine. They would, however, take part in the more entertaining drills later on in gyms N1 and N5, and especially N4, and they would give their input at the end on the matter of individual scoring and which recruits should go on to become field agents. Clint and Natasha held quite a bit of sway over the futures of the men and women SHIELD had groomed at the academy for this moment. They came from many different backgrounds. Somewhere from lower divisions of SHIELD, others where ex-military and special forces, and a few, though none in this group apparently, sometimes had slightly more interesting backgrounds, such as his own or Natasha’s. Each was a loner, with no family or complicated histories along with the basic skills needed to qualify. It was with this formula that SHIELD had long ago perfected that the perfect candidates were observed, vetted, and chosen to attend the Academy. After the Academy, those that planned to become, say, field agents like the current recruits standing before Clint and Natasha, would have to pass the reviews before becoming fully fledged SHIELD agents. There were other review processes for less demanding agent positions and lower clearance levels, but the path to becoming a field operative was by far the most taxing. Even if they made it through the Academy, that didn't mean they had what it takes.

Natasha nudged Clint's elbow, gaining his attention. ‘They know who we are?’

‘Probably. Called me Barton when I came in, and the pair of us are pretty distinctive. But then, no shocked expressions or gasps of awe and wonder, so then...’ he shrugged, laughing quietly at the roll of her eyes.

‘If they haven’t already,’ she signed as she started forward towards Miller and Connolly with Clint a pace behind her. "They’ll figure it out pretty quickly,” she remarked, finishing aloud.


	4. Here's to Tough Love

Clint and Natasha had been watching the recruits' marksmanship and accuracy closely; Natasha right up behind them, mostly because she wanted to see who could focus, who was too oblivious to their surroundings, and who she made uncomfortable, and Clint was watching from a distance- he always saw better from a distance. After half an hour, a few stood out from the rest. As a general rule, Clint never bothered to learn a recruit's name unless they looked like they had a strong chance and he wanted to keep an eye on them. While Natasha was gliding through their ranks with a clipboard making a show of checking boxes and taking notes (which actually meant nothing and where just to antagonize them), Clint stood with his arms crossed questioning Connolly- a tall, thin man with graying hair, and by far the more pleasant of the two full-time instructors- about some of the recruits.

"Who's that disassembling the glock-19 over there? Female, caucasian, brunette?" He nodded his head in the petite woman's direction.

Connolly flipped through the list of names on his clipboard."That's Erin Samuels, graduated top of her class in marksmanship consistency."

"And the guy at gate seven?” The young man was tall, well built, had dark army cut hair, and excellent reaction timing with near perfect center mass shots for the last five minutes.

"Daniel Foster, ex special forces, top of his class in marksmanship accuracy, fourth in hand-to-hand. You've a good eye, Barton. Record of having trouble with authority though."

"Hmm, it's in the name, isn't it?. And what about him at gate three, and his buddy there to his right?"

"Uhh, the guy Agent Romanoff had a ‘discussion’ with? William Greene, eighth in marksmanship, average in all other categories, record indicates a bunch of petty rule bending, not the most benign kind, along with his associate and lacky, Greyson Banks, who graduated fifth in hand-to-hand combat."

Clint grunted a thanks as he turned away and signaled Natasha over with a little wave.

"I think it's time to mix it up a bit. I’m bored." Natasha nodded in agreement. He walked over to the weapons closet, a small room within the gym of steel grate walls upon which nearly every type of weapon that could be used in training hung. Entering his code to unlock the gate, Clint stepped in while Natasha watched from her position outside, leaning against the grating in a nonchalant fashion. Inside, Clint went directly to the metal cabinet where he stored one of his specialized collapsible practice bows- practice because it was strung more loosely and not compound so as not to break anything or pierce the skin if he was careful. Retrieving it, he threw a quiver with mostly- mostly- non lethal arrows over his back and grabbed a Beretta M9 off the wall. He offered the handgun to Natasha on his way out along with multiple magazines of rubber bullets, which she accepted graciously. No longer feeling awkwardly naked without a bow in hand, he and Natasha, who now had two handguns at her hips, glided into the center of the room.

Clint raised a hand to his mouth and released a piercing whistle that rang throughout the gym, similar to that used when hailing a taxi on a busy New York street. Slowly at first, heads turned to find the source of the disturbance, and one by one, recruits put their designated weapons down and stepped away from the ranges.

Connolly looked confused; Miller just looked aggravated. Agent Miller took a few steps in Clint and Natasha's direction then thought better of it and stopped, arms crossed with red tinged face.

"Barton. Romanoff. What are you doing? We, who actually have a job to do, are on a schedule!" Exasperated, he flung his arms up dramatically and yelled, "All of you, go back to your tasks!"

Looking about, Miller could tell he had lost the game for superiority. The sense of authority was not coming from him, the squatish, slightly balding man in a cheap suit, but from the two actual Avengers in the gym. There was some confusion and mutterings from within the gaggle of potentials, but by now all suspicions of Clint and Natasha’s counterpart identities were confirmed. A little annoyed by their reactions- Clint really hated being famous more than one would guess- he took a half step forward and cut them all off with a glare that would freeze water.

"Alright let's get something straight. The next week is going to be hell on earth for you lot. We are going to make sure of it. It isn't a matter of 'if' or 'at what' you will fail, it's when. There is no 'can I make it through this', only a 'can I last long enough'. Remember you are competing against yourself, not each other, but it goes without saying some healthy competition can’t hurt. At the end of the week, you will be scored on your performance and if you pass, welcome to the club- enjoy being shot, stabbed, beaten, and blown to hell for the rest of your possibly very short careers. If not, congratulations, you're riding a desk for the foreseeable future. The tactics will be nontraditional but effective; you will often find yourself asking 'what the hell am I doing?' but you will do it anyway, without question, because everything has a reason. Accept it and move on. If you are given an order to jump you don't ask 'how high?', you just do it. Do something wrong, or particularly stupid, you will experience physical and/or psychological pain. Over the course of the next week, you will experience more than you ever did at the Academy- that’s child’s play. It's sink or swim time people, get used to it."


	5. Here's to the Women Among Us

Over the course of the next three hours, Clint and Natasha pushed the recruits to their limits and then some, finding out each of their individual skills and weaknesses. Foregoing the gun range for a while, they moved on to hand-to-hand combat for the last three hours of that day's session. Sometimes they paired the recruits up, sometimes they were against multiple opponents, forcing them to work together, and sometimes Clint and Natasha ordered a group of two or four to the mats while the rest circled around watching and Clint and Natasha called out notes, advice, but more often mistakes.

The two had a firm belief in the benefits and effectiveness of negative feedback. More often than not, when a mistake was made Natasha would shoot the offending recruit with a rubber bullet then point out what they did wrong, which served to make sure the mistake was not repeated and taught them to continue on through the pain and distractions. When a worse offense was committed or an earlier mistake repeated, Clint drew back his bow and let fly round rubber tipped arrows that hurt a hell of a lot more than small caliber rubber bullets and knocked the offending recruit on his or her ass. The only way they knew they did something right was if neither Clint nor Natasha said anything.

Miller was furious about the break in protocol. Intentionally harming potential recruits was not quite in the handbook. He walked around glowering at Clint and Natasha, mumbling and cursing about the two hijacking 'his' field agent reviews. At some point, Clint was pretty sure he went off to complain about them to someone, but apparently there was nothing anyone was willing to do about it. Connolly however adjusted quickly enough to Romanoff and Barton's style and made himself somewhat useful.

"Amir! What are you doing? Avoidance before deflection, deflection before counter aggression." Clint yelled with a scowl.

Natasha lifted, aimed at his leg, and pulled the trigger a second later.

"Agh! God damn it!" Amir spat out between clenched teeth, struggling to concentrate and disable his opponent.

"God can't help you now. No one but yourself can. The faster you learn that the better off you'll be," Clint added, re-crossing his arms across his broad chest.

Natasha stepped up. "Alright, enough. Next, and last, two. Up on the mat."

Amir and Krieger untangled and stepped back and off the slightly elevated 20 by 20 foot padded platform. Out of the ring of recruits around it came the next two up: Greene and a young woman whose name Clint wasn't familiar with.

She was slightly shorter that Greene and he had a hundred pounds on her easy. She radiated conviction though and was unshaken by Greene's attitude which made it clear he thought he had already won. Natasha frowned. The ignorant confidence that Greene exuded was just the type of thing that set her off, especially when he was only so boastful because his opponent was a woman and smaller than him. That meant nothing, but obviously Greene was not smart enough or experienced enough to know that. Clint had seen Natasha take down men three or four times her size within seconds. And she always looked damn impressive doing it.

While the two stepped up onto the mat and circled each other, watching and waiting for an opening, Natasha turned on her heel and spoke to Connolly who was watching the two, doubt evident on his face.

"Who's she?" she asked curtly, eyes flickering back to the two on the mat.

"Jennifer Fallow, excelled in close quarter combat, graduated third in hand-to-hand, noted in her file here- excellency in close quarter blades weaponry, comes highly recommended for further SOD training.”- Special Operations Division, of which Strike Team Delta, among others, operated out of. Not bad.

A ghost of a smile spirited across Natasha's face. She knew what to expect know, and so did Clint, who had tuned in.

Apparently Greene grew tired of waiting, and in his ignorance, made a straightforward lunge at Fallow. She reacted immediately and took advantage of the opening. Dropping quickly into a crouch to deflect the first jab, she sidestepped, jumped up while twisting to the side and brought her elbow down hard on Greene's back while simultaneously slamming her shin into the back of his knee, causing him to collapse forward and hit the ground hard. Greene recovered quickly, rolling and leaping up more cautiously this time, eyeing Fallow as she danced back putting distance between them, lightly on the balls of her feet.

Clint snorted in disapproval. "Don't let her use your own momentum against you. Act smart, not necessarily fast or first.” Clint shook his head, then continued more quietly, talking more to Natasha and Connolly next to him that anyone else in the room. “That’s how you wind up bleeding out in the middle of goddamn Concordia, Pakistan, with nothing but a hobbled camel and a pack of Oreos."

Natasha snorted, raising her gun and firing once again, hitting him right in the gut causing him to double over, gasping. While she did so, Connolly looked over at Clint, perplexed. “There’s got to be a story behind that.”

“Maybe for another time.” Connolly just shook his head.

He straightened up after catching his breathe and they began circling again, but this time, Clint and Natasha saw hesitation and doubt where overconfidence had been. On the third cycle, Fallow shifted her weight to her back foot and lowered her hands a few centimeters. To the experienced eye, this was obviously a ploy to incite action from the opponent, but Greene took the slight shift in balance and stance as a sign of preparation to attack and decided on a preemptive strike. Both were moving then, and after a flurried exchange of blows and blocks, Fallow was retreating again. Greene moved after her hastily. A mistake.

When he was in mid-stride, Fallow flipped back to the ground, planting her upper back and shoulders into the mat while she kicked her legs forward, bare feet slamming heels first into his rib cage with a very solid thump and a woosh of air as she knocked the breath out of him, and allowing him to continue his forward fall over her. Greene fell, half rolling over his shoulder, tumbling to an ungainly stop, and before he could recollect himself, Fallow kicked her legs up, flipping to her feet, leaped at him, and slammed her closed fist down on the center of his chest, which they had been instructed meant a killing blow and signified the end of the round.

They both stood up, or at least tried to, Fallow landing lightly on her feet again looking satisfied and Greene, still trying to collect his breath and grimacing, looked mostly shocked and quite uncomfortable.

Clint glanced around at the exhausted and haggard faces that had been eager and determined just five hours ago. Each had new bruises, either from the rigorous sparring, rubber bullets, arrowheads, or a combination of all of the above. Clint could sympathize with them. He remembered how rough his introduction to SHIELD was, even though it was under much different circumstances, but he also knew it was necessary and would pay off.

"Alright, we're done for today. Agents Miller and Connolly will show you your temporary quarters and explain your schedule for the rest of the day, I'm sure. Tomorrow morning, same time, ten to three, meet here. You're dismissed." 

A general sigh of relief went out as the recruits retreated to the locker rooms to shower, count bruises, and bitch about their instructors and their 'untraditional' methods. If they were expecting a ‘good job today, keep it up’ talk, they didn't show it, but by then, they knew what kind of a week they were in for. As they shuffled off, Clint heard his partner speak up somewhat unexpectedly.

“Fallow, a moment.” The young woman looked concerned, suddenly questioning what she had done wrong, but stepped forward while everyone else was ushered away nevertheless. The faintest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “As it happens, Fury would get pretty pissed with us if we let a recruit die during our reviews, so let’s keep that,” she motioned back towards the mat, “to a minimum. You’ll break someone’s ribs and puncture something important doing that. Dismissed.”

A mixture of relief and, he supposed he would label it ‘grateful intent with a little awe', washed over her features. Nodding vigorously and still a little out of breath, she replied, “Duely noted ma’am.” And with that, she rejoined her group.

Clint snorted, moving to return his extra training weapons to their places. Natasha, who set about disassembling, cleaning, and putting away the handguns she was using, flicked her gaze over his way, a question on her face. He just shook his head, “Ma’am,” was all he had to say, which was met with an eye roll and a sharp punch to his side. He saw it coming, but suddenly felt too exhausted, his limbs like lead, so let it land, which may have been a mistake seeing as how she managed to hit him right over a that bruise he was sure was well on its way to being his not-so-favorite shade of purple.

He grunted softly, turning away from the cabinets and leaning back against the wall for a moment, concentrating on relaxing his muscles and breathing as the sharp jab of pain faded. It had been a very long day; he'd had four restless hours of sleep about thirty hours ago, and between the time of waking up and making it to his extraction point, he'd had close calls with death and serious injury too many times to recall. He had been working the Vakhrov case for the last two weeks, which had been time consuming and physically and mentally taxing. He had been trained to maintain operative ability, to be able to function at demanding levels, off of the smallest amounts of rest or sleep, but he was nearing his limit. He wondered for a moment if Fury realized just how shitty has past two days had been when he sent him down here today, or maybe he just assumed Clint would speak up and go to med-bay if he needed it, or worse yet, maybe he was trying to force Clint to willingly admit defeat and injury and check himself into med-bay, which had never and would never happen. He had been worse, but also better, and the job was not even done yet.

"Hey,” Natasha called, getting his attention. “You okay?"

He looked up to see Natasha watching him, concern flickering in her dark, sincere eyes. She looked more vulnerable that way, when she let her mask of indifference and spite slide away, like she only did when they were alone. It was a significant sign of trust from her, and he cherished it.

"Yeah, I'm good Nat. Just need a break." He stood up straight, rolling his shoulders, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before heading out the door with his partner at his side.


	6. Here's to Fun Times and Failures

It was only 3:30 on a Monday, but Clint was ready for the weekend, which tended to be less hectic. He retreated to his office/personal quarters/ "nest" according to Natasha (yes haha how funny, she has a sense of humor) after the training session. It’s not like it had a bed or anything, but there was a cot tucked into one corner for when the situation called for it, an armchair, a half-couch, and a desk with a coffee maker plugged into the wall and seated on top. More importantly however (not more importantly than coffee, more importantly than the contents of the room), it was on the 4th subterranean level, so there were no windows, and only an air vent way to small for a person to crawl through and a 3 inch steel door with SHIELD tech level lock system. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and it was one of the most secure places he could ever go. It came in really handy for power naps between long assignments whenever he was there. 

He had really come to rely on its familiar comfort and security after the Incident, which was almost two years ago now.Actually it was probably not a good indicator of his mental health at the time that he basically never left his own personally induced self confinement/isolation. He had stayed there for at least a week after he was released from SHIELD after a thorough investigation that entailed more digging around in his head, and medical and psychological analyses that felt more like interrogations than anything else. It wasn’t until Natasha put her foot down, possibly quite illegally (he never really got answers to that- was he a prisoner, was he just under watch for his own safety and that of others, etc, etc, but it’s not like he was eager to leave either, he was actually kind of a mess) dragging him out to stay at her safe house outside the city with her. There probably would have been more resistance to that plan of action on Fury and other invested parties’ parts, if not for the actual Captain America telling them to fuck off- yes, Steve Rogers, Captain America, the star spangled man with a plan, actually told Fury to “fuck off”- and that his teammate was not at fault for Loki’s actions. He supposed Steve’s declaration carried quite a lot of weight, because they did, fuck off that is. But it was bullshit either way; Steve, who was a great guy and all after Clint and Natasha had gotten to know him better over the past two years, had no idea what was going on in Clint’s head, had no idea what he really did, and why, and how- how it felt, how he could hear that damn whispering in his head, that compulsion, that revolting drive to- to- goddamnit thoughts, no, no, no. Stop.

He took a breath, held it in, and let it go. Currently lounging back in the very comfortable armchair as he was, in the corner of the dim room with a view of the only possible access point- said locked, solid, heavy steel door with an eight digit unhackable entrance code- he focused on the then and now. Everything ached. In what was possibly one of the most secure bunkers in the world while barricaded inside his own secure realm, he could rest easily without worrying if someone would try to cut his throat in his sleep. For that particular worry though, he was a light sleeper and could only rest with a weapon within easy reach. After a while, the darkness, silence, and security along with his own exhaustion made it difficult for him to stay awake, and he willingly dozed off into a still and welcomingly uneventful slumber.

~THUD THUD THUD~

Clint jolted awake at the sound of someone pounding in the door and the lights flashing brightly (the lights for in case he wasn’t wearing his aides, however he was at the time). Immediately, muscle memory and extensive training kicked in and he was out of the chair with throwing blade in hand, poised at the source of the disturbance.

"Clint! You in there? Well I'm coming in so don't shoot me please." Natasha's voice was muffled through the door.

More awake now, reality hit and Clint straightened up and tucked the blade back into it’s pocket off his belt. He heard the sound of his partner, the only person in the world he trusted enough to give the digits to, dialing in the code. He ran a hand through his hair in an effort to flatten it down and glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:17 P.M. He'd been asleep for about three hours. Oh well, he'd take what he could get.

The lock clicked and the door swung inward. Natasha stepped inside and switched on the lights. Clint, who was perched on the edge of his desk, squinted at the sudden brightness.

"What's going on Nat?"

She leaned back against the wall, hands on hips. "Fury wants to see us in his office."

He must have new information on Vakhrov, Clint thought. 

“Yeah, probably.” 

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” He stifled a yawn.

Natasha just signed, and he thought he saw that flicker of concern from earlier return. She walked into the room and punched the button on the coffee machine, which she knew Clint kept primed and ready to go.

“Aww, we have time for coffee? Thanks Tasha, that’s why I love you.” He slumped back into the chair, letting his half-hooded eyes fall shut.

He heard her huff out a breath of air, and a moment later she had dragged him up, put a mug of coffee in his hands, and led him out the door.

Natasha opened the door to the director's office and ushered Clint through before going in herself and closing the door behind her. Fury was sitting behind his desk looking through a thick file when the two agents walked in. Clint shuffled over to a chair and sat down more gingerly than last time, aware of developing bruises and various aches and pains. Natasha leaned against the back wall not to far away, just over Clint’s shoulder. A few minutes passed of Fury flipping through pages. He was going to motion for her to sit at the other chair next to him, then realized there wasn’t a chair next to him, which was weird because it was there that morning when he… oh. Well, he did predict this.

Suddenly he was laughing into the mug at his lips, shoulders shaking slightly, and a tired grin creeping across his face. Natasha was looking concerned again, probably thinking he'd finally gone and lost it. He didn’t turn to see, but he could feel her eyes on his back. He didn’t care. 

Fury looked up, not nearly as amused as he was. “Something funny, Barton?”

“Chair’s gone,” was all he said between small huffs of laughter.

“Yes, you would know why, wouldn’t you. A little slow on the uptake today though.” The permanent frown on the Director’s face became even more frowny- was that a word? He thought so. 

“Agg, give me a break,” he mumbled, taking another sip of the life-giving liquid in his hands. “I’m sleep deprived and it’s your fault and you know it.”

Fury seemed to have lost interest. "Barton, I want to hear everything that happened in Nicaragua. Full debrief."

Clint glanced over his shoulder half way at Natasha, figuring if he was no longer going to be working the mission alone she ought to hear the details from him. He heaved a sigh, and looked down at the now empty mug in his hands like it had offended him. “Sure thing boss, but I’m gonna need more coffee for this.”

[ { Feb. 12, 2014 } Outside Managua, Nicaragua] [12.1150° N, 86.2362° W]

He had been dropped off by a SHIELD Blackhawk helicopter at the designated drop in a clearing in the jungle on the outskirts of the capital city, the largest in Nicaragua, in the dead of night. He had the basic supplies with him: the weapons he would need, a variety of tools and gadgets, a few thousand bucks in the native currency for emergencies, etc. The one good thing about Managua for him was that it would be easy to fit in with the general populace due to the extreme variance in ethnicities, cultures, and classes, not to mention the large tourist population.

His target was last known to be staying in an upscale hotel in the city's business district- El Almendro. The first day, he had worked to get eyes on his target, Alexei Vakhrov, international arms dealer and smuggler. Through bribing the locals for information (being fluent in Spanish helped considerably in this part) and his own careful intelligence gathering, he was able to work out Vakhrov's general daily schedule and who his associates where. By the fourth day, Clint had planted listening devices in his hotel suite. By the sixth, he had bugged his limousine and had managed to put a tracker and microphone on Vakhrov himself- thanks to the help of a friendly call girl and an open bar- not that this part was going in the official report. Every day Clint waited for Vakhrov or one of his lieutenants to lead him to the compound where his business was directed and where he had locked away the stolen nuclear launch codes Clint was tasked with retrieving. His orders were simple: retrieve the codes if possible, if not, destroy them. Secondarily, he was to detain Vakhrov, but if that was not possible, neutralize the threat. The later option was more likely in this case given the corruption that ran rampant among the local police officials, and the fact Clint had recorded a conversation in which Vakhrov’s lieutenant had bribed said officials. Thirdly, he was to discover the identity of the buyer and relay that information back to SHIELD so upon the completion of his mission, another SHIELD team could track down, detain, and question that individual. Because of the multiple aspects to his assignment, he opted to retrieve the codes when all of his targets were in one place. Not the most challenging mission he’d ever been assigned, but he’s getting ahead of himself.

On the ninth day in Managua, Clint discovered that the buyer would be meeting Vakhrov at the hotel in four days or so to finalize arrangements and then they would be escorted to his operations base, one of the many warehouses that ringed the city, later in that evening to complete the transaction. When the buyer arrived, a wealthy CIA-watch-listed Saudi Arabian businessman with ties to terrorist organizations, Clint was ready to follow.

They eventually stopped at one of the large, newly constructed warehouses listed under shell companies indirectly held by Vakhrov, which was discovered only after hours of delving through the trail of bank transactions and legal documents on a night when Clint had way too much time on his hands. (Seriously, listening to hours and hours of audio from a series of hotel suits was not only boring as fuck, but nasty.) The security was advanced, as he had expected, but there were more guards than he had planned for. It wasn't necessarily an issue, but it made the whole matter more complicated.

He then had two choices. He could either intercept the buyer on his exit from the compound and secure the codes, then go back for Vakhrov, or he could enter the warehouse with the targets still inside and get it all in one go. He opted for the second option, which was all-around simpler with less moving parts, plus, it minimized the chance of the codes being lost once they were mobilized.

Up to this point the mission had run smoothly, but that was about to change.

Clint had climbed up onto the roof of a three story building and ran stealthily across rooftops and jumped gaps until he made it up to the warehouse next to Vakhrov's. From his perch there, he waited until the guards rounded the corner and were out of his line of sight before launching himself off the highest edge with a running start, shooting a grappling arrow at tallest ledge of the weapons storage compound, and swinging down and onto the lower projecting rooftop where he landed with a silent roll. Overall a very graceful and skillful maneuver, please note.

First, he secured an escape route by lining a section of the second floor wall with mild explosives and a remote detonator. From there, he climbed higher until he found a maintenance access panel on the roof of the third floor. Once he had picked the lock and was inside, he worked his way down, floor by floor, avoiding guards and cameras without any flaws. Finally, once he cleared the first floor, he descended into the below ground level. He followed the tracker on Vakhrov until he came across a large set of vault like doors with two guards stationed outside. He turned into a small room off of the hallway full of stacks of shipping crates and miscellaneous boxes full of a variety of handguns, from which he took the one he gave to Natasha- again, not that that was going on the final report or being told to Fury. Inside, he opened up the reasonably sized ventilation duct and crawled through a series of turns and drops, relying on the tracking signal and ventilation duct experience to arrive at the vent connected to the vault. He pulled out the microphone receiver during this process and listened to the conversation going on inside the vault between Vakhrov and the buyer. Mostly the discussion was about pricing and sick jokes about the potential to instigate nuclear war (or mass genocide, or a lot of other awful things that made Clint not care so much about planning on killing the guy) with the stolen codes. When he made it to the grate on the inside of the vault, which was helpfully situated in a far corner behind many large crates and boxes. He slowly and silently removed the grate and pulled it inside the vent duct. With extreme caution and dexterity, he climbed out of the vent and dropped to the floor, landing in a crouch.

He climbed up the crates, which were so helpfully labeled ‘explosives’, until he neared the twelve foot ceiling and found the perfect perch where he couldn't be seen but had a clear line of sight. The two men were standing around a table while multiple bodyguards hovered about behind them, two of which being the ones that came in with the buyer. On the table were three briefcases, two open, displaying millions in cash, the other open and displaying a folder containing the codes.

Then Vakhrov's phone rang. After glancing at the caller ID, he frowned and answered after turning his back to the table. A moment of silence passed, and then he hung up, not having said a word. Suddenly and completely out of the blue, Vakhrov drew a gun previously tucked into the back of his belt, spun, and shot his buyer between the eyes, then unloaded the rest of the clip into the chests of the guards. It was over in a second, and there wasn’t a damn thing Cling could do about it.

He grabbed the launch codes and yelled for his guards to grab the money. This was the time to act, Clint decided. He stood and released a drawn arrow that found it's mark, buried in the chest of the guard holding the money, who then proceeded to fall, the still open briefcase falling from his then lax grip and money spilling out. Vakhrov's cursed but kept moving towards the back wall which opened up and closed behind him. Clint was temporarily pinned for just the few seconds necessary for Vakhrov to escape by a hail of bullets from the other guard, but in the seconds it took for the guy to reload, Clint took him out while descending from his perch. Realizing he couldn't make it through the way Vakhrov went, he ran out through the vault doors which had begun to be opened by the two guards outside, who heard the gunshots. Clint knocked two arrows, running at the opening doors, then launched himself across the floor, sliding past on the smooth marble, twisting around as he went to release the taut string and see both men fall, arrows protruding from their heart cavities. Rolling to his feet, he came face to face with a huge mountain of a man. A quick flurry of blows, a few knives, about 15 seconds, and a ruptured carotid artery later, Clint was covered in blood- gross- as well as a few bruises, and once again running for the exit. The alarm was blaring, and all of the security personnel in the warehouse were rushing down to meet him. This was about the time he first thought to himself that he was in trouble.

Thankfully, the maze of narrow hallways made sure only a small number of them could fire on him at a time. His goal then wasn't to kill them all but rather to get out alive and relatively unharmed, so he let a lot of them off lucky, choosing to run and dodge rather than engage and waste more time. Vakhrov would've needed to get out somewhere, and so Clint was hoping to be able to stop his car before he got away.

He sprinted up a flight of stairs to the second floor, taking out his handgun and opening fire on the men close behind him, forcing them to dive for cover (It was a lot easier to fire a gun behind him while sprinting forward than a bow). He threw the gun aside when the clip emptied, not sparing the time to reload it, and drew his bow. He dropped two burly guards running at him from the bottom of the stairs, and dropped to a knee and took out another coming from across the second level before pulling out his remote detonator and sprinting toward the end of the hallway. Throwing a quick look behind him, he activated the detonator which created a crater in the wall not 3 meters in front of him, then leaped forward toward it just as a massive explosion ripped the entire building apart behind him.

Clint regained consciousness, not quite sure when or why he lost it in the first place, and could still feel the vibrations from the aftershocks of a violent explosion, the size of which Clint had never before had the pleasure of experiencing up close and way altogether too personal. His head was throbbing, ears were ringing (his aids were shot but that was besides the point), and he was covered in ash, debris, and blood (most not his own, miraculously). He pushed the larger pieces of the warehouse that had landed in him off and struggled to sit up, his vision blurry. Had he done that? No, his charges were much smaller, and he remembered them going off before. He had been thrown clear of the burning wreckage where the arms dealer's compound had been moments ago, remarkably not-crispy for the size of the fireball that went up, though feeling like he was pummeled with a sledgehammer. Repeatedly. He was able to stagger to his feet just in time to see the dark limousine speeding away.

He managed to drag himself to an SUV left behind in the gravel lot, wire it, and get the hell out of dodge just as the local police, fire, and paramedics arrived on the scene. When he was safely away, he tried the GPS tracker on the limo and Vakhrov’s person, but he didn’t get any signal from either of them. Soon after that, he called for extract, and 7 hours later, he was dropped off at New York HQ.

[{ Feb. 26, 2014 }Director Fury’s Office, SHIELD New York HQ ] [Exact Location Unknown]

Fury looked deep in thought as Clint bitterly finished retelling the events of his failed mission, refilled mug of coffee forgotten and cooling in his lap.

"Everything was fine until he flipped and killed his buyer. No warning, not any hint that he was planning on leaving with the money and the codes," Clint insisted. "Up until that call he had no idea that I was there, or even that he was on SHIELD's radar. He figured it out, and he ran. He had to have. Something spooked him."

Fury looked Clint in the eye. "Could the call have been from his guards if they saw you on the security cameras?"

"No." Clint stated simply, but the conviction was there. He was a little angered that Fury would so blatantly question his work. "Not possible."

The Director nodded, accepting his reply, which helped ease the archer. Natasha stayed quiet, but Clint knew she would have plenty to say once they were alone.

The Director opened up one of the desk drawers and pulled out a heavy file which he put down firmly on top of the many papers already taking up residence on the desktop. He opened it, showing the first page featuring a picture of Vakhrov.

"We've gathered new intelligence recently, and have determined that Vakhrov has fled to mother Russia, where he intends to auction the launch codes on the black market to the highest bidder." Fury pointed at Clint and Natasha. "You two, will be retrieving the codes before he sells them. Detaining him is no longer a priority, but he needs to be dealt with."  
"Understood," Clint responded. Vakhrov was now their mark. Good- quite frankly the guy had pissed him off.

"Here are the details," Fury said, shoving the thick file towards them, "but there's one adjustment. Vakhrov has encrypted the codes and stored them on a secure offline server file, and destroyed the hard copies, for whatever reason. It isn't a matter of retrieving the original papers any more. As such, you two need to go pay Stark a visit before you leave."  
"What? Why Stark?" Natasha questioned, eyebrows furrowing. Clint was thinking the same thing.

"I've put him up to the challenge of creating a program to wipe the file and destroy the codes, which he accepted after some persuasion. You both need to go and get it."  
"Why have Stark make it and not SHIELD's science department, and why do we specifically have to pick it up?." 

"Because that's what I decided, Agent Barton, and because you two going to get it in person upon its completion were the terms of Stark’s agreement." Fury made it clear there would be no more questions.

"Well, shit." Natasha summed up the situation quite accurately.

"Agreed." Clint added.

"Stark is expecting you in an hour. You leave for Moscow tomorrow morning. The jet leaves here at 6:00 a.m. Now get out," the Director ordered.

"Yes sir," Clint and Natasha both said, rather dryly, in unison, with equal amounts of bitterness projected in their tones. Mostly because it just pissed Fury off for some reason. 

Wonder why.

Clint pulled himself up, Natasha grabbed the overflowing file, and they left.

Watching the door close behind them, Fury retrieved the file he had been skimming before they walking in. He stopped to consider the consequences of the events that had been set in motion, having a gut feeling they were going to get much worse before they got better.


	7. Here's to the Benefits of Having Scary Friends

Half and hour left. Half an hour until Clint and Natasha had to pay a visit to Tony Stark. Half and hour before they would find out what he was playing at. Stark wanted to see them for a reason, and they both knew they wouldn't enjoy it.

It wasn't that they disliked Tony, in fact, both had grown rather fond of some aspects of him. For example, they both knew in the deepest part of him, he was a genuinely good person, and they both respected him for it. They also were among the few that appreciated his often lewd but comic remarks and the digs he took at people like Steve for being so, well, Captain America-y. But, he was prone to being childish, self-absorbed, boastful, and boisterous, he covered his insecurities with sarcasm and wit, he could be a pompous ass, and he enjoyed creating and using annoying nicknames with which he labeled pretty much everyone. So, if he went to the trouble to arrange a meeting with Clint and Natasha, it was most likely for a reason they would not like.

Clint and Natasha sat in a relatively quiet corner of the main lobby on the ground floor of SHIELD headquarters, counting down and trying to hold on to the minutes that passed before they would need to leave for Stark Tower. Both had changed into more civilian clothing and concealed their weapons in preparation of emerging themselves into the general population of New York.

"What do you think he wants?" Natasha asked rather drably.

"I have no idea," Clint relied, "but to be honest I don't even care. We just need to get in, pick up the program, and get out."

"If only it would be so easy. We may have to prepare for a hard tactical exit. We should bring some C-4." Natasha brightened up at the possibility of using explosives.

"We probably won't need C-4, Nat. The threat of resorting to violence is usually more effective than actually using it."

"Fair enough," Natasha pouted.

Clint looked at his watch and sighed. "We ought to go now, though. Let's just get this over with."

"Clint, we've never trained for anything like this." Natasha said this in all seriousness.

"I recall you saying something similar to that before, and we survived. We can do it again." Clint said, smiling.

Both rose from their seats looking rather depressed and took the elevator down to the parking lot. While they would have preferred to take something much more interesting, and they opted for signing out one of the many black SUVs under Agent Miller's name and identification code (they’ll never say how they got it and you’ll never prove it) and threw their gear in the back seat. They pulled out and up the ramp into the sunlight.

The repairs on Stark Tower- now apparently Avengers Tower, god- had happened swiftly, and it looked completely untouched, even renovated, unlike other parts of the city which, even after two years, still showed the tell-tale signs of a massive showdown of the forces of Earth vs aliens and gods. Clint looked up at the massive structure, once just a gigantic billion dollar middle finger to the lobbyists of the world who said green energy wasn’t feasible, and now still a gigantic billion dollar middle finger, this time to the would-be-super-villains of the world. Clint and Natasha walked through the main doors and looked around the lobby area, which was empty of foot traffic except for the security staff stationed around the doors and elevators to prevent Tony Stark fangirls from storming the place. The two agents marched right in, glaring daggers at the two personnel who stepped in their path to the elevator

“Identification please,” was all they said, looking uneasy, but apparently Stark aid them enough to persist in their measures.

Oh irony, the life of the spy is to go unrecognized. Seriously, if Steve Rogers walks in, well everyone knows exactly who he is, but SHIELD had managed to keep Hawkeye and Black Widow’s faces from appearing on pictures on every newspaper, tv talk show, and blogger mom website since the Incident, given that your secret special ops undercover team becomes much less effective when everyone knows their faces. All the media really knew was that the Avengers had an archer by the moniker Hawkeye and a ninja lady by the title Black Widow.

“Well that’s awkward,” Clint retorted, “because we’ve not actually got any with the names you’re looking for. Let’s see, I’ve got…” Clint dug his hand into his jeans pocket, pulling out a wallet. Flipping it open, he began rattling off the different false cover IDs he had on him while tossing them out in the form of driver’s licenses to clatter on top of the marble counter top of the front security desk. “William Brandt, oh, here’s a fun guy, Aaron Cross, hold on, here’s William James, uh, and we got James Coughlin- huh, lots of Williams and James's, wouldn’t you know it.” 

Natasha, who was standing a step behind his right shoulder, arms crossed with the usual ‘are you serious right now?’ look on her face, laughed aloud at this, a genuine, bright peal of laughter that he took as a personal accomplishment, given the rarity of it. 

“Look I’m sure she’s got twice as many on her as I do. But Stark will recognize us, so please move. I’m asking nicely.” He even threw in an incredibly charming smile.  
The two guys who had directed them toward the security desk just looked a little frazzled, mouths opening and closing but no words coming out. That it, until one of them recovered enough to turn to a woman behind the desk and say “Call the police” in a hushed undertone, but still audible enough to hear.

“What? How about no, don’t do that?” A little more than indignant now, Clint watched as the woman went to reach for the phone, but Natasha moved faster, darting over and pulling the cord to the receiver from the wall with a harsh yank while Clint quickly swiped up his multitude of IDs.

Security started to move in from the different corners of the room, all saying stuff at once, there was confusion, some poor bastard reached for Natasha, who without really thinking had grabbed his wrist and had him on the floor sprawled on his back in a second. If this wasn’t bad enough, when she was bent over the back of her jacket rode up to reveal a bit of the Beretta M9 tucked into her waistline.

“Gun!” someone yelled, then suddenly guns were drawn all around, oh hell no, and pointed up toward then, fuck it, and Clint struck out against the one guy nearest him, quickly disarming him in a flurry of motion, sliding the clip out of the stolen weapon, and shoving him backwards into the two other security guys who came up behind him while tossing aside both gun and clip all in one fluid motion. Those three went to the ground, and Clint spun to see Natasha had dealt with two others in a similar manner. This was all happening in a matter of seconds, and Clint was just opening his mouth to say something along the line of ‘time to go’ when a familiar and at this point quite welcome voice cut in over the chaos via unseen speakers. 

Tony sounded a tad alarmed at the state of his lobby. “Okay, okay, everyone just STOP, stop what you’re doing. Barton, Romanoff, do NOT kill my security staff! Take your assassin craft elsewhere, thank you. Now for god’s sake get in the goddamn elevator.”

There was general confusion among the security staff, six in all in various states of disarray after dealing with Clint or Natasha, and the one petite woman who just looked a little shocked at the events that had spiraled so out of control in the last 30 seconds. She was just staring wide eyed at the the two of them. Apparently that quick show of basic hand-to-hand defensive posturing had been enough to blow her mind. Honestly her staring was making Clint feel uncomfortable- felt like he should say something.

“Uh, sorry,” he threw her way, with an apologetic shrug. After that and an exchanged glance with Natasha that said everything they needed to, they were stepping over the tangle of sprawled limbs and hastily making for the elevator, which had already opened at the bottom for them.

The doors clicked shut behind them, and Clint felt the familiar feeling of the rapid ascent. “What even just happened?” he voiced his thoughts aloud, shaking his head slightly. “Did we just resort to beating up a bunch of mall cops? Ug, we’re never telling anyone about this.”

“Hardly mall cops,” she added. “And we wouldn’t have needed to do anything if they had been reasonable.”

Clint sighed, ducking his head and rubbing small circles at his temples. He just wanted to go to bed. Today sucked. “You’re right.” He leaned back against the wall of the elevator, tossing his head back to rest against it and examining the shiny reflective ceiling. “They’re probably payed way too much to be mall cops.” 

He drew in a deep breath, then immediately regretted it when his right side revolted against him. Wincing ever so slightly before he got a control of it, he shuffle back, his right arm having moved in closer, protectively held to his ribs. Okay, so he may have bruised a rib. Or ribs plural. Actually, the dull throbbing that had been constantly radiating out from his side made sense now. But nothing was broken, so whatever. 

He noticed Natasha out of the corner of his eye off to his left, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with one leg bent and the knee, foot tucked up against the wall behind her. She was watching him. It was more of a sense, a feeling from experience, and he didn’t have to look directly at her her to notice her normally impassive, cold-masked facade had slipped in a way only he could hope to detect to reveal softer edges, showing the concern she wore so often when it came to him, and also a touch of anger or upset that he wasn’t sure the origin of or who or what it was directed at. 

He closed his eyes, lead lolled against the wall, and signed simply ‘I’m fine, quit worrying’. He cracked his eyes and glanced at Natasha, whose shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. She met his gaze, bright eyes flashing with something he didn’t quite catch. 

She straightened up, a small displeased frown and furrow of her brows taking up residence on her face, lifting her hands to sign something back when Jarvis interrupted.  
“You have arrived at the 90th floor. Sir requests you please join him and the others at the south side sitting lounge.” 

The doors clicked open at the community level, which dominated two of the top floors of ‘Avengers Tower’(god did Clint hate that name- like anything that happened in New York two years ago deserved this sort of monument). They stepped out onto the very open floor space complete with sitting area, bar, and a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan and nearly all of New York City. Jarvis spoke up.

"Agents Barton and Romanoff have arrived, Sir."

"Yes, thank you Jarvis." Tony jumped up out of his chair at the bar on the far side of the room and walked over to the two agents who were exiting the elevator. Upon seeing him, they meandered over toward the bar he had vacated, meeting him halfway.

"Hey guys, how's it going? On time, that's good. You want a drink? Something? No, yeah? Okay." Tony was walking towards them then walking backwards toward the coffee table, couches, and chairs that made up the sitting area besides the bar, talking with his hands and constantly moving. Taking in their surroundings properly, Clint and Natasha saw Steve leaning against the bar and Dr. Banner sitting down on the edge of the couch looking at a blueprint of sorts spread out on the glass coffee table. Pepper was on the phone, pacing back and forth along the floor to ceiling panel of windows overlooking the city. 

An exchange of nods and greetings around that corner of the floor later, and Natasha and Clint were seated on a vacant couch across from Banner, Tony having commandeered a spacious armchair, and Steve having sat on the other side of the same couch as the good doctor, still pouring over the blueprints in front of him. He had glanced up and given a quiet hello and polite smile before returning to the papers spread out before him. 

“Brucie-Bear,” Tony began, “I don’t think staring at the specs are going to solve the problem with the stabilizers. I’m telling you, we should build a prototype, and make adjustments after gathering solid, tangible data.”

“I would be in favor of that if the ‘data’ we would collect wouldn’t be the size and scale of the explosion when the core fails because the polarization has shifted suddenly.”

Tony gave a signature eye roll. “We don’t know for certain that would happen, it’s a theoretical-”

“It’s an unnecessary risk is what it is.” Bruce moved to collect the various paper, shuffling them into a pile and setting them aside, apparently deciding he was done with them.

Tony held his hands up in surrender as Pepper, who must have finished her phone call, walked over to join them. “Natasha, good to see you,” she said with a bright smile, Natasha rising from her seat and the two women moving to greet. Natasha didn’t care for hugs at all, but when Pepper moved in for one, she went with it. 

The two women struck up a conversation, something about a merger Pepper was working on as CEO of Stark Industries and some sort of even last week, and Tony moved from his armchair to a spot more closely besides Clint on the couch than he was really comfortable with, so the four men were gathered around the coffee table.

“Hey, Katniss,” Tony said, elbowing Clint’s arm to get his attention. “I wanna show you something.” He clapped his hands, “Jarvis, screen please, and pull up the video feed from the lobby a few minutes ago. Oh, he really didn’t wanna do this, not with Stark, and certainly not with Captain America across from him to provide his signature ‘Steve Rogers does not approve of this’ look. A hologram screen popped up from the coffee table, and Tony leaning forward over it, Steve and Bruce also leaning forward with interest at whatever Tony was up to, so Clint was the only one leaning back and far away as he could manage. Why had Natasha chosen now to abandon him?

He saw multiple images of the lobby come up from different angles. Tony was grinning mischievously, moving the angles on the screen with quick swipes until he was happy with them.

“Tony, look, sorry about that, but that was not our fault, you-” He was cut off.

“Oh come on, who doesn’t have a real ID? And who carries around that many fake-”

“We do, Stark. Because Natasha and I don’t technically exist on any level recognized by the government outside of SHIELD- which also doesn’t exist, mind you- and we certainly aren’t going to leave a paper trail at the DMV.”

“Alright but-”

“No. How do you think the media and the internet haven’t had much to was about either of us? Do you think that wasn’t intentional? Christ, the lengths SHIELD went to to keep our faces out of the news cycle- you have no idea.”

Tony seemed to consider this for a moment. “Whatever, fine. But still, this bit here is pretty funny. You can see the exact moment you register this ‘oh, shit’ expression.” He had moved the video forward and, rather than playing it, moved forward through a series of stills centered on Natasha and himself. “See, right there, you see the gun, then, ha! But all things aside what you did there was pretty cool, that-”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted, tone and shake of head disapproving, interrupting his rambling, probably having noticed Clint’s slump back in the couch, now massaging his temples.

There was a moment, probably filled with a few meaningful glances and more disjointed hand movements from Tony, not that Clint was looking at any of them. The moment was ended by a huff from Tony, who shut down the hologram, and resigned himself to “I ought to hire better security.”

“Not their fault,” Bruce spoke up. He glanced at Clint, wincing a little. “They were doing their jobs, and no offense or anything, but they weren’t necessarily prepared to go up against two shady government agency assassins, not to mention Avengers.” He looked a little sympathetic to Clint’s situation.

“Hmm, fair point Brucie-Bear. But hey,” he straightened up, remembering something. “I did have a purpose for wanting you two here,” he pointed at Clint, then to where Natasha had been a moment before. With a confused frown, Tony began spinning, scanning the room. “Where? She was ju-”

“Right here,” Natasha spoke up, from nearly right behind him. 

Jumping, quite startled, he spun to face her. “Jesus! Could you not?”

“Sorry.” She wasn’t sorry, Clint knew. 

“Right, well,” he recomposed himself. “There’s a few projects I’m working on I’d like both of your inputs on. Trying to get it all done today, because lord knows when I’ll see either of you again.

Steve looked up. “What am I here for exactly?”

Tony winced apologetically. “Well, you’re easy enough to call around, and given that Bruce was already here, and then these two, it only felt right to bring the rest of the gang back together- you know, besides the one that’s light years away.”

Steve seemed to accept this, but while Tony, Steve, and then Bruce were pulled into the conversation, Clint extricated himself from the group quickly and quietly over the back of the coach, moving to stand near Natasha. 

Signing, he asked ‘I distract him, you find it, then we leave?’ He was a little hopeful. Mostly he just really wanted to leave.

She shook her head pityingly. ‘I think we have to humor him.’

He slumped a little, not looking forward to spending time around people he had to interact with. He was always fine with Natasha. They knew each other, knew when the other didn’t want to talk and what they needed. There was never such a thing as awkward silence between them. Usually, when it came to other people, he was fine. But sometimes, he just got this creeping, increasingly insistent feeling of discomfort and claustrophobia around other people, and all he wanted to do was slink away and find a quiet rooftop to himself. It didn’t really matter who it was either- Steve, Tony, Bruce, Pepper- they were good people, he even considered them him friends a little, but his brain was just not having it today. He supposed it was left over from the Incident, after which he had a violent opposition to unknown people, and just other people in general, for a few weeks. Since then he’s been a hell of a lot better, in every sense of the word, but at rare times, that feeling came creeping back.

She nudged him, bringing him back to the present. ‘One of those days?’ Of course she had picked up on it. All of the signs he’d been showing throughout the day- of course, that only she knew him well enough to notice and decipher.

He didn’t respond at first, looking down and away, though she waited patiently. The other four people in the room had begun talking about something to do with antique furniture- though he had no idea how that topic came up. When he did reply, it was ‘I’m fine, just tired, a little sore, and not really feeling like putting up with this right now.’

She nodded, understanding the feeling. Then they were interrupted. “Hey, spy kids, workshop is this way. We’re moving now.”

Pepper had excused herself, saying her goodbyes, on the pretense of having work to do- not surprising, she was CEO Stark Industries after all. Bruce slipped out after explaining he had experiments running in the lab that needed his attention. So then Tony, Steve- who apparently had nothing else to do that day- Natasha and Clint were moving down the elevator 7 floors to Tony’s secondary workshop in the Tower, his primary being below ground, where he kept his larger, more industrial, and much louder projects. 

There, Tony began flying about, doing ten things at once, directing each of their attentions to various projects he had in motion. He wanted Natasha’s input on a new security system layout of the tower, including where to place various cameras, motion detectors, thermal detectors, etc, and wanting her to help identify weak points. Clint was going to suggest their air ducts were one such week point, and should be monitored with motion detectors as such, but then, he wouldn’t be able to use them to move about, now would he. He also had designed a few new gadgets and fun toys for Natasha, explaining it was a belated birthday present, and he asked Nat to test them out. She happily obliged. 

Stark wanted his own input on the logistics of a new set of hearing aids, the specs of a few new trick arrow prototypes and a compound bow designed for minimal resistance in the draw and maximal force behind the release, as well as to be light and collapsible. He explained he whipped them up one night when he was bored. He also wanted the marksman’s eye for any weak points or target areas on a redesigned model for a new iron man armor. 

Long story short, Clint had won a bet with Tony after one mission the Avengers were assembled for about a year back in which Tony was bragging about how his suit was impenetrable to external projectiles, and Clint had retorted by pointing out how the exposed joints in the metal were vulnerable to incendiary bullets or arrows, take his pick, that could easily cripple his movements or take him out of the sky. Well, that of course led to Tony vehemently denying it, which led to the bet, which led to Clint proving it on a spare iron man set of armor Jarvis controlled externally, once Clint explained no way in hell he was going to demonstrate on a suit his teammate was in, because dammit he was serious when he said he could do it. In the end, Clint had crippled beyond repair what he was sure was a million dollar suit of armor, but he had yet to collect on the ferrari Tony had swore he would buy him- not because Tony went back on his deal, in fact he was calling up a dealership almost immediately after the crumpled metal had stopped smouldering, but Clint had stopped him. He would never bring so much attention to himself by driving a sports car like that, and knowing his own track record, it was likely to be blown up or at least riddled with bullet holes by the end of the week. 

Since that day, Tony had been constantly modifying and updating his armor designs to correct the deficiency, occasionally asking for the archer’s thoughts and observations. Clint was currently tossing a prototype detonation arrow up and flipping it in his hands (Stark explained was filed with inert plastique of the same weight and consistency as the actual explosive compound he designed to have a wider and stronger blast radius) while testing its balance.

“Thoughts?” Tony asked from behind him. “It’s pretty perfect, yeah?”

“Balance is off by a narrow margin. I could readjust for the spin in my aim, assuming I’m the only person who would be using the design, but it would take a few test runs to get a feel for it.”

“What? How can you say the balance is off just by holding it? Do you know how many simulations I’ve run, and their abilities to detect over the most minute of imperfections? This is a next generation arrow my friend, refined and assembled entirely by the best technology has to offer.” Well, if he was so sure of himself…

Clint snatch the arrow back from Tony, lifted the new bow- which he actually liked a great deal- notched it, drew, inhaled sharply, sighted, held his breath, and released in one split second fluid motion, the familiar flush of pleasure he always got from watching an arrow fly true absent, and for good reason. Clint marched over to the massive rubber tackboard, littered with various hardcopy diagrams, specs, blueprints, and sketched designs, in which his arrow had embedded itself. Well, he could now see it had punched right through and into the wall a few inches, but that wasn’t the issue. Clint stabbed at a dark black circle with his finger, part of a diagram on the piece of paper he had murdered, that was about a centimeter from from his arrow had landed. 

“That’s what I was aiming at. That’s where it hit. Off Balanced.” Clint slid the bow back down to the end of the table. 

Tony peered closely at the discrepancy. “It seems you’ve assassinated by tackboard, well done.” He frowned, straightening up, one arm crossed his chest, the other hand at his chin, contemplating. “It’s only off by a centimeter at most. You’re certain you didn’t-”

Clint gave him a look reserved for immensely stupid questions- he didn’t miss. What was more, he had grown increasingly tired, and agitated, and felt more and more like he was just going to bolt out of there with every passing minute. He was fidgety, and hyper aware, and felt like he was going to fall asleep and like he needed to sprint a mile simultaneously. It was already 9 PM; at this point, Clint hadn’t had an adequate amount of sleep in somewhere near 40 hours but hell, who was counting anymore. He knew exactly why he felt that way, too. Everyone had their limit to functioning capacity without proper sleep, and towards the end of it, the body kicked into overdrive, the adrenaline gave you one last pick-me-up, and then you crashed. Hard. Clint was pretty eagerly awaiting the crashing bit- he felt like he could sleep for a week. And as such, the last of Clint’s patience was rapidly vanishing, and it was this attitude that bled into the glare he sent at Tony.

“O-kay,” Tony surrendered, hands up, placating. “Unbalanced. Logistically though, it that difference enough to matter?”

Natasha had glided over to where they were bickering a few minutes back. Glancing over at her, he could see she was eyeing him, turning the arrow that she had yanked from the wall over in hand. She had been leaning against the wall, observing them both, until when Tony asked that, and she stepped forward toward them. 

She tapped Tony on his chest with the still quite pointy arrow tip, just below his arc reactor over top of the AC DC t-shirt he was wearing. “If I were to shoot you right, here,” she tapped again, emphasizing, “you would die in less than 30 seconds. But right here?” She grazed the arrow over his shirt to the right by about two centimeters. “Now I’ve missed the arteries and cardiac membrane, and you may even live if you get help in the next 7 to 10 minutes.”

She stepped back, edges of her mouth curving upward ever so slightly. Tony, who has stood petrified a moment ago, was smiling weakly and shuffling away from the two assassins. “Okay,” he swallowed, and Clint didn’t blame him that he looked like he didn’t know whether to be very turned on or very afraid- probably both- at Natasha’s little demonstration. He had seen her, heard her use that voice before, low and seductive, on marks in the past, getting up close, making them let down their guard and forego their personal space, only to wind up garroted or stabbed right beneath the sternum and into the heart. 

“Tony,” she smiled again, eyes glinting with malicious intent, though through the face of innocence. Damn, she could be scary when she was being sexy. “We’re glad we could help out, but we did come her for something, or did you forget?”

“No, no, right. And look at the time. I should probably let you guys get back to your, whatever you crazy kids get up to these days.” He was moving along hastily toward the elevator, herding them along with him. “Thanks a lot by the way, been a big help. And, that think Fury asked for, well, here it is.” He fished a flash drive out of his pocket, handing it to Natasha. “It doesn’t look like much, but, ah, be careful with that thing. I don’t even want to know what you plan on doing with it, but that’s some of the nastiest bit of coding I’ve ever whipped up.”

There were thanks, no problems, goodbyes and until next times, all of which Clint had mostly zoned out, and then they were in the elevator, just himself and Natasha. Everything felt a little hazy, like he was an outside observer watch events happen around him, but then Natasha was there, hands on either side of his face and forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Don’t pass out on me until we get to the car,” he registered, and he nodded in reply.

"Thanks, Tasha." For getting them out of there.

Minutes, or maybe it was hours later, Clint fell into the passenger seat of their unmarked SHIELD SUV. Finally.

The next thing he realized, he was being prodded awake by Natasha, who then pulled him almost bodily out of the car and was leading him, almost half carrying him, into one of her SHIELD safe houses/apartments that she rotated between in New York.


	8. Here's to Mockery and Mischief

Natasha leaned back in her seat- at least as far as it would go in the cramped space of the passenger cabin of the jet. Unsatisfied with her unsuccessful attempts to give herself more space, she put her booted feet against the back of the seat a little more than a half meter in front of her and the divot of the cabin wall where the window was set, shoving back violently and quite suddenly, under which the thinly padded seat gave up its resistance and jerkily fell back, though the sound it made in doing so made Clint think perhaps it wasn’t made to. Examining her handiwork, allowing herself a small grin of satisfaction, and shrugging, she fell back into it, stretching her arms up toward the cabin ceiling and her legs, toes pointed, resting on the back of the seat in front of her, her back arching up effortlessly, then relaxing and slumping down into her seat further, still reclined. 

She flipped idly through the massive report on Vakhrov, his contacts, land holdings, likely refuges, aliases, employees, resources made available to him, past history in Moscow, business associates, and everything else personal SHIELD had on the man from his preference for the age of his wines to his preference for the age of his prostitutes. Yeah, not so much a stand-up guy.

Apparently, while the arms trafficking business was his forte, he wasn’t opposed to exploring other revenue streams in which his contacts could aid, including but not limited to drug and human trafficking. Clint only wished Fury had explicitly given them the greenlight to go ahead and ‘solve’ the issue. Technically, Fury had said that “detaining him is no longer a priority”, meaning if they made him disappear, well, no biggy for SHIELD of them. The Director also said “he needs to be dealt with”, making Vakhrov their mark officially, however, (see, it’s the ‘howevers’ that made Clint’s head hurt) it was NOT and explicit greenlight. It was a ‘use discretion, but there’s good information we want out of this guy, so we want him alive, and if you don’t at least try and detain him you’ll get nasty looks from Fury and loads of paperwork from Hill’ kind of situation. Plus, there was this whole thing called a conscience. (Clint was pretty sure it was that little thing in the back of his head that made him not so much like killing people, no matter what type of dirtbags.) All around, not so straightforward. What WAS straightforward was destroying the launch code information that could start World War III, so that’s where they would start.

Natasha continued fanning through the papers, a perpetual frown on her face (a sort of pinched expression that was a little adorable, but don’t tell her he said that), skimming a page that peaked her interest now and again, but for the most part, her curiosity in the file was one born out of boredom. So there they were, two technically non existent government agents on a small jet using technology was never technically invented flying across the Atlantic Ocean (see, quinjets, while more spacious and kick-ass all around, were not made for such long distances) for a mission they couldn't talk about or get caught during by the orders of a massive super secret spy organization, which, oh yeah, also didn’t exist. But for a whole lot of not existing, the cramped and very uncomfortable arrangement Clint was in felt pretty real. 

The boredom, that was real too. Clint had slept for the first hours. He’d woken up early at Natasha’s place that morning, had been dragged into SHIELD HQ from departure, then promptly fell asleep again. So now, well-rested, focused, still sore (cramped conditions of super long plane ride not helping) and now so, so very, very bored. Clint and Natasha cleaned their weapons, discussed their strategies, read the file cover to cover (a rarity), and generally sat in anticipation, doing nothing.

Neither of the agents were particularly patient in this type of thing, the Black Widow considerably less so. Clint was at least used to sitting alone on rooftops and watching from afar while awaiting the mark, sometimes for hours on end, but Natasha was all about motion. She could skulk around in alleys for hours, darting from shadow to shadow stalking her mark, never rushing ahead but waiting for the exact moment to strike. But, when there came the rare time that the job called for sitting in a claustrophobic aircraft for a few hours, it was Clint that excelled in maintaining composure (mostly because he had the ability to nap in times of impending stress of danger, and he could talk about anything and nothing for hours on end, while Natasha couldn’t, and wasn’t as much of a talker.

He leaned as far back as his own chair would allow and exhaled steadily, relaxing every muscle slowly and enjoying the relative silence with just the steady hum of the engines and the gentle vibrations of 500 mile per hour wind shaking the frail cabin hanging miles above the Earth. He controlled his breathing, like any good sniper could, and his heart rate followed Breathe in, thump, thump, out. In, thump, thump, out. In-

~WWHAAM~

Clint shot upright, instinctively surveying the interior for threats. But it was only Natasha, pacing, a little hunched due to the low ceiling, back and forth in the narrow confines of the stealth aircraft. She had slammed the heavy file down hard on the tiny table, its many papers now askew and falling out at the corners. He chuckled silently to himself and she whirled on him, glaring.

She threw herself down moodily in the overextended chair she had just vacated a moment ago. It wasn't just having nothing to do that agitated her, it was being contained to the long and narrow cabin of the jet for so long- Natasha didn’t have an issue with tight spaces, in fact, he was pretty sure she preferred them, but not ones she couldn’t leave whenever she wanted. Clint was alright with it- after all, it was just him, his partner, and the SHIELD pilot locked away up front (Clint could have flown, but then, there would have been the matter of disappearing an entire jet, even as small as it was, which might have clued certain unwelcome parties in on their presence.

"Truth or dare?" She had dropped into the seat across from him, and was looking at him expectantly. They occasionally played this game on stakeouts, or on ops when they had a lot of time to kill, but their version was anything but mundane.

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

"We are either playing Truth or Dare, 20 questions, Would You Rather, or some other god awful game you have introduced me to. It’s your fault, don’t give me that look."

He sighed, considering, and after a moment, he nodded his consent. "Would You Rather. Not much in the way of dares to go around up here-" he cut Natasha off with a pointed look before she could speak up “and we agreed dares to be completed in the future were a hassle, always untimely, and all too much risky business. No thank you.”

She grinned. "Fine. Would you rather be put on the protection detail of a hyperactive sugar-addicted five year old for a week, by yourself, and assigned to stay in one safe house that entire time, or be assigned to lead a team of new recruits fresh from the academy for a month?"

"Oh god," he massaged his temples like simply thinking about those two possibilities hurt. "Uh, the second one. I'd leave them in a hotel somewhere and do the jobs myself."

"Hmm, that’s not part of the deal."

“Well you didn’t say that-”

“I’m not about to cover every possible loophole here, just follow the rules, Clint.” She crossed her arms, giving him ‘the look’.

“Ugh, fine, same option though. Now, would you rather be the new SHIELD handler for Stark for a year, or be locked in solitary for a month?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "The first, obviously. I would just kill him." She smirked.

"You, hypocrite,” he enunciated with a prejudicial finger point, but wasn’t willing to take her bait further.

“We’re playing Truth or Truth now. Pick.” 

“Oh, gotta be truth.” He rolled his eyes.

“You have to make out with one of the Avengers for a solid minute. Who?” She grinned devilishly.

Oh, well. “Ahhhh, m-”

“You can’t say yourself. Not possible. And not me either- not like we haven’t already done that.” He sent a devilishly charming grin her way, along with the right amount of eyebrow waggling and a wink for good measure. He was just kidding though, and she knew it. They had kissed before, made out, call it what you like, and on more than one occasion, but only because the mission or their covers depended on it- PDA was excellent for making people avoid you. Plus, there was that one time in the alley, when they were totally detected in a place they shouldn’t be, and really had to sell it- again, securing covers. They never felt the need to talk about any of that though- just part of the job. She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “I don’t blame you, I am the best looking out of you sorry lot. But you still have to answer.” 

“Not like I got a lot of choices.”

“Steve, Tony, Bruce, Thor.”

“Like I said, not a lot of choices. But…”

“Yes?”

He made a disgruntled noise, rubbing at his eyes. “I literally have no idea how Thor would react- who knows what they get up to in Asgard, Tony would probably be very confused, and never shut up about it- honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been-there-done-that kinda thing, Steve, god, I might scar him for life, 1940’s sensibilities and all, and Bruce, well, he might just politely explain he’s not into that kinda thing and then let it go, which would be optimal, or I might get the Hulk, who fucking knows- not optimal. What would you do?”

“Steve.” She didn’t even pause to think.

“Said that awfully quickly. Should I know about something Nat?” He inquired, joking.

“Oh please,” she waved him off, “everyone wants to fuck Captain America.”

“Wait, what? I thought we were talking about-” She winked at him, failing to contain a grin. He snorted, giving her a disapproving look. “Troll.” He glanced up slyly. “You’re not wrong though.”

The pilot's voice came out over the intercom, interrupting them. "We're beginning descent now, e.t.a. ten minutes."

They both jumped into action, gathering their bags, organizing, arranging, double checking, and preparing for a rolling departure, meaning the plane would touch down and slow just enough for them to jump out safely, which was 15 to 20 miles and hour, before accelerating and taking off again on the same strip. While not an entirely pleasant departure, it allowed for speed and stealth and made it all the less likely their arrival on Russian soil would be noticed. The aircraft shuddered as it neared the ground. Clint and Natasha readied themselves for departure at the automatic side hatch that would close itself behind them. 

“So, you’d pick Cap.” Not so much a question but a statement came from Natasha, calling out over the shaking and groaning as wheels touched down. The two assassins felt the plane slow jerkily as momentum attempted to propel them forward. 

They gripped tightly to the bars on either side of the door that would open, preparing for the go ahead. “The missing part of that equation, however, being that I’m not gay, no matter the star spangled tights.” 

That earned him a full body laugh from her, though he couldn’t quite hear her now over the noise, and he was barely able to hear call out “I would swear allegiance to that,” smile still brightening her features, and he couldn’t help but return it.

They continued to decrease speed, and the noise died down significantly. It wouldn't be long now.

The pilot came on again, letting them know the jet had slowed enough for their departure. The door opened, wind whistling and ripping at them, and Natasha and Clint tossed their two bags of equipment out first.

"After you," Clint mocked.

"Always the gentleman," she retorted, rolling her eyes for the millionth time. And with that, she was gone from the plane, having executed a graceful leap and roll- though he had to assume the roll part, which he didn’t actually see. Clint followed.

It wasn't ideal, leaping from a jet, but it was necessary. Clint hit the ground hard, though he was moving with the force, rather than pushing against it like most people when flung from a moving vehicle (that’s how you break your ankles folks), rolled, head and limbs tucked appropriately, then used his momentum to leap upright and land with a few jolting steps propelled forward. He quickly surveyed his surroundings as the jet accelerated and lifted off again, far past him now.

They had touched down in a small, rather empty, definitely not international airport about twenty miles from the outskirts of Moscow. It only had three landing strips and a small hangar that could fit maybe two small jets or a few lightwing aircraft. It was probably a hub for private and charter flights, and was their best option for an unnoticeable drop into foreign soil on a definitely not "sanctioned" by any means mission. Down the road, there were a few scattered buildings, including what looked like a rundown diner, gas station, and some sort of warehouse likely connected with the airport, and even farther down were the outskirts of a community.

Natasha had gathered their sparse equipment from where the bags had landed and was motioning for him to hurry over, which he did. She was looking at a SHIELD intercom tablet, which for all intents and purposes was an iPhone, just with direct access to the SHIELD database, extensive software shielding, happened to be unhackable, untrackable, and also nearly indestructible.

"We need to move. There's a small semi-suburban community centered a mile or so East; we can find a more suitable mode of transportation there."

"Great, and as I recall, it's my turn to pick the car."

She responded by throwing one of the bags at him. "Come on, we're on a schedule." The previous lighthearted joking between them was gone now that they were on the ground. It wasn’t necessarily odd either; flipping on and off work mode and the hypervigilance that came with it was something they were practiced at.

They took off in the direction of the parking lot, where they would hijack one of the few cars available there or on the surrounding streets until they could find a more permanent, discrete mode of transportation later on. Carefully skirting the few lights and keeping a sharp eye out for cameras, they made it to the lot surrounding the building where, as expected, there were very few options. But then, it was 1:00 in the morning. Excluding the bus and shuttles, they only had four options.

Natasha sighed at the limited selection. Clint was not thrilled either.

"Too flashy," he said, nodding towards the 94’ Mustang, once a brilliant yellow, now dulled slightly.

"Too recognizable," Natasha muttered as they passed a Jeep.

They stopped for a moment in front of a pale blue minivan with a 'Best Mom' bumper sticker, in Russian of course, and exchanged a glance. No.

Their fourth option was a late model Ford Fusion, grey, and somewhat battered. It would do. Hell, hardly even a choice.

Clint retrieved a car jack from their equipment and was in the car in seconds, Natasha threw their bags in the back while Clint opened up the dashboard and set about cutting and reconnecting wires with expert precision and speed (with his less than savory history, he didn’t even need the years of training on the job to jack a car). The engine hummed to life, and minutes later they had left the airport behind them.


	9. Here's to Cheap Hotels and Anonymity

In the small suburb-esque community Natasha had directed them to, they had ditched the Fusion at an inconspicuous street corner in favor of something less noticeable a bit more than a mile away (no, stealing through the night in the wrong direction that far away to find a car was not fun, but it was basic if-you’re-going-to-jack-a-car-then-do-it-right knowledge, given that if a previously ‘borrowed’ car were found right next to the last known location of a currently missing car, even the dullest of police officials could connect the dots- basic spy 101). It wouldn't have taken long at all for someone to notice their last ride was missing, and their priority was staying well under the radar, so a new car that no one would miss for a while was first on their to-do list. Luckily for them, this didn’t appear to be the type of neighborhood or demographic in which crime or grand theft auto was an abnormality.

In their line of work, blending in was second nature to Clint and Natasha. Given they were there for the long haul for this one, rather than their usual combat ready apparel, they were garbed in the appropriate fall clothing apparel: jeans and jackets. Also lucky, combat boots didn’t clash with the style like they did in the summer, which could be a hassle. (Let’s just say trying to run or take down a threat or disassemble an explosive device, and most importantly look awesome while doing it, requires combat boots.) They were both carrying weapons, as always, but were not armed to the teeth per the usual for the obvious reason that it would draw quite a bit of unwanted attention. Unfortunately, that also meant no bow or quiver for Clint, which was one of the reasons he disliked undercover work; sure, when it came to concealing some knives or a handgun or even a partly disassembled semi-automatic, the ankle or back of the belt worked fine, but for a bow and arrows? Not so much. They tended to draw attention. 

The car they selected was the most generic, unmemorable, and in every way average car they could find: a 97' black Toyota Camry. To keep up appearances, they adopted both the native language, Russian, and the south eastern accent to go with their cover stories and IDs. To completely immerse themselves in the environment and the mindset with memorized to the point of second-nature characters and backstory, it took less than an hour- Clint must have gotten rusty.

The car ate up the miles, semi-rural wooded landscape becoming more affluent organically developed towns becoming urban-outskirts middle class suburbia becoming increasingly low-income outer city ring of industrial, older buildings, businesses, and tenant housing. By the time they were driving into what was truly the city, it was around 2:45 in the morning, but the city was still very much alive. They were entering the Western Administrative Okrug, or district, which was essentially the westernmost outer edge of a pie slice of the city of Moscow, the Central Administrative district, containing the central business district, being located at the center, and the other districts encompassing sections of the city that radiated out. The layout was fairly uniform, and the streets fairly navigable, so overall, not the most challenging capital city to be on assignment in (Fun fact, the worst by far in Clint’s experience being Jakarta, capital of Indonesia, where utterly dismal transportation infrastructure and urban planning met increasing numbers of car owning citizens that commute, resulting in an average of two hour traffic per trip into, across, or out of the city, which was really, really fun. No, that was sarcasm. NOT fun.)

The most they could do then, with their limited information on their mark’s current location, was get to a central position within their target radius, bunker down, and establish a base of operations. This of course meant an inconspicuous yet mildly seedy and inauspicious hotel- but then, once you’ve slept in a cave in Uzbekistan for a month, well, you’re happy with the mystery stains and hair in the sink.

After again ditching their car in a side alley a safe eleven blocks away, they checked into an actually moderately livable hotel in the inner ring of the lower to middle class industrial belt around the city. Because their information on Vakhrov's exact location was rather non existent, they were depending on an underground SHIELD contact in the region for information on the auction and sale on the black market in order to trace back to their mark. The only plus side of staying in that particular part of the city was that even when checking in at 3:00 in the morning, no one asked questions, no one would particularly remember them, and no one really cared.

The place wasn't ideal if one cared for little things like hygiene or appreciated some class, but, as previously considered, they had both stayed in worse places by far. Still, even when their resources had been extremely limited in the past, with their skills, they were always capable of doing pretty well for themselves. Hell, Natasha had once gone underground for a few months in Western Europe under less than favorable conditions, and when Clint had gone to track her down (only possible because she left him markers and he knew her very well) when he had ‘resolved’ the issue, he had located her at a castle in the Scottish highlands, staying with an elderly baron whom she had convinced that she was a long lost niece returned to the family. It was a very cozy setup. Still, with no already established and waiting contacts and very limited SHIELD funding and support in their current situation, events called for flexibility, and Clint wasn’t too picky anyway- for a roof and cable was all he asked.

Clint shouldered both bags and waited for his partner at the bottom of the well worn carpeted staircase as Natasha spoke with the desk clerk, carrying on in fluent Russian. Money was exchanged, and the clerk flipped the small corner television back on to the sports channel and went back to smoking what, from the smell of it, wasn't a cigarette. All the better for forgetting them, he supposed.

Their room was on the top floor of the four story building at the end of the hallway, with only one room adjacent to it, though no door between. There was also a fire escape outside one of the two windows, one of which had a street view, the other open to thin alley space. Logistically, their position wasn't the most defensible as it had multiple access points, but it provided plenty of fast access escape routes should the need arise to bail quickly, which was honestly preferable to a bunker, because Clint and Natasha would take mobility over defensibility any day.

Clint threw his bag down on the floor next to the far bed, and tossed the other onto Natasha's bed. It landed with a muted thud and the shrill screech of old springs.

"Wonderful. Were you planning on sleeping?" he asked, quirking a brow sarcastically.

"No, not really."

"Like you said, on a tight schedule. No time for mundane things like sleep- leave that to the lesser beings."

"Hmm, when do we meet with Mikael?" she asked, referring to their SHIELD contact, and choosing to ignore Clint.

"Not for another five hours," Clint responded, checking his watch. "Get some rest, I'll take first shift."

"Okay, wake me in three." She threw the comforter completely off the bed, touching it as sparingly as possible (ever seen one of them under a black light?) and curled up on top of the sheets with her gun in hand under the pillow, and knife tucked securely into one of her unshed boots. Clint pulled a chair into the corner where his back was to the walls and he had the windows and door in sight. He unholstered one of his handguns set about dismantling and cleaning it as he kept watch.


	10. Here's to Not Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning

"Clint," Natasha spoke softly, but loudly enough to wake him. "Come on, get up, our meeting with Mikael is in an hour." She stood back, knowing it was not a good idea to come too close, and especially a bad idea to attempt to shake him awake. With their experience and training, they were both prepared to attack and be attacked even half asleep- so honestly, it’s best to let sleeping assassins lie. He sat up with a jolt, hand moving toward his concealed weapon until he registered the familiarity of his partner’s voice, and blinked hard a few times at the sudden light. 

Tony discovered that a few months ago when Clint had dozed off on a couch in a quiet corner of the communal living room at the tower after they had all returned from a mission, and Tony thought it would be a good idea to jostle him awake. Really, it couldn’t have been worse timing; Clint was tired, sore, and hadn’t quite managed to transition his brain from the hyperaware, ‘autopilot mode’ that kept him alive during missions and high stress situations to the much more relaxed ‘civilian mode’- the differences between the two being the differences between Agent Barton or Hawkeye, and Clint Barton. Tony ended up on the ground, arm twisted awkwardly with Clint kneeling on his throat, knife in hand. Clint was just registering who he was assaulting, no harm really done yet, when he found himself hauled off of Stark, into the air, and back against the wall by a startled, protective looking Captain America. All of this while Natasha was laughing her ass off a little ways across the room. That would have all been awkward enough, if Clint wasn’t sure Steve was thinking Clint must have had PTSD or ‘shell shock’ (whatever he called it; generation gaps were confusing) or something for the next week- the guy was walking around him on eggshells. But, some apologies from him and some assurances/explanations from Natasha later, and everything was fine. Actually though, no one but Natasha ever interrupted his naps again- bonus. Anyway, back to the present.

Roughly three hours ago he had woken his partner much the same way and allowed her to take over watch, so they both received roughly the same amount of shuteye. Three hours may not seem like a lot, but rest was a rare commodity for them while on the job and they had long ago adjusted to rolling with what they had. 

"Hmm, what time is it?" he asked, rolling off the poor excuse for a bed to his feet.

"About 9," she said, crouching to lace up her combat boots, that is, the brown leather footwear worn by women in the fall, not her preferred black pair worn as a part of her SHIELD uniform. It was much harder to get the blood out of them, but they worked well enough and were better for assimilating into their new environment.

Clint shrugged off the thin black hoodie he had fallen asleep in and tossed it into his bag while pulling out a fresh black t-shirt and grey jacket. He reached back, grabbing his shirt by the scruff behind his neck, and yanked it off over his head. 

Natasha, who Clint was oblivious to, watched out of the corner of her eye somewhat unintentionally as she finished lacing up her boots. The way the muscles on his back and arms, chiseled from years of archery, rippled as he moved was hard for her not to appreciate. He pulled on his shirt and jacket though, and Natasha shook her partner from her mind as she stood and grabbed her own jacket.

They took their equipment and belongings with them, not trusting them to still be there if left unattended. After selecting a new mode of transportation a twenty minute walk away, they headed deeper into the city toward their prearranged meeting place with their SHIELD contact. 

Fury hadn’t just dumped them in without any direction or actionable information- even though Clint was sure he wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it if he had. Apparently, a SHIELD operative had long been undercover in Moscow, monitoring the arms, drugs, and human trafficking pipelines through the region. This agent was in a unique position to hear word of Vakhrov’s arrival and intentions to auction the launch codes. Much of the information Clint and Natasha were working off of was fed to SHIELD through this guy that neither of them nor their close contacts in SHIELD had heard of, which wasn’t entirely suspicious, but then he was apparently unable to convey everything he knew- including the important stuff like locations and identities- and it was arranged for whichever Strike team that was sent- Clint and Natasha as it happened- to meet with him once on the ground in Moscow. All of that could be attributed to paranoia and hypersecurity after years of undercover work, but it was also throwing up all sorts of red flags- not incredibly conducive of confidence in their contact for Clint and Natasha.

The small plaza was relatively nice- what someone more “cultured” than he might describe as quaint- tucked away from a busy avenue behind a coffee house, the side of a local restaurant to the right of the plaza, and an eight foot brick wall covered in climbing ivy stretched from the rear of the restaurant, around the back of the plaza, and to the back end of the coffee house. The two story coffee shop to which the plaza belonged sat directly on the avenue, a staircase taking patrons up to the second floor for more inside seating, the ground floor mostly made up of pillars and half-walls that opened up directly onto the plaza, various tables spilling out onto the cobblestone plaza. It was private enough to conduct their business but public enough for no one to pay them any attention, and their location was near enough the busy avenue to persuade any unexpected guests from "making a scene".

They sat together at a small table in the center back region of the plaza, facing each other so that each's line of sight covered the other's exposed back and the most accessible entrances: through the coffee shop, the alley between the shop and the next building over, and over the back wall. They seemed to be an average couple - leaning back, sipping coffee, and chatting pleasantly, in Russian of course, but both remained vigilant as they waited for their contact and watched for any sign of trouble.

Clint leaned back casually in his chair, tipping it and balancing on its back two legs. He reached for the table and picked up his coffee, feigning a sip. Neither of them actually drank or ate anything. The first rule of stakeout; it would be all too easy for someone to slip them something.

"He's late," Clint spoke around the cup of cooling liquid he pulled away from his lips.

"I was told he was..." She paused to find the right word. "Hmm, eccentric? Unhinged? He's been under for quite a while. If he’s just late, I’ll count ourselves as lucky."

"Unhinged. Awesome." He remarked with a note of bitterness and his old friend sarcasm.

Another ten minutes of small talk and false ease passed while small clusters of people idly wandered by, chatting and contributing to the general noise and quiet commotion.

"Clint..." Natasha said quietly with a flick of her eyes towards the back of the coffee shop.

"Yes darling?" He gave her a winning smile.

"We have a shadow...darling." She smiled right back, but it was the kind of smile that said she would have hit him if she could.

"Could be him." He didn't turn to look, but took off his shades and set them down in front of him while looking at the reflection on its dark surface.

"Maybe, but why would he hang around waiting? He's late already, and he should know who to look for, assuming SHIELD gave him a heads up." 

"Like you said- eccentric." They weren't about to act on what could be nothing at all, but the slight shift in her partner's posture told her he was bracing himself, preparing himself to move or act quickly as needed, as was she.

Suddenly the shadowed figure detached itself from the pillar and the small throng of people behind it which he or she was lurking behind, making a straight line for the alley between the buildings.

"We have a runner," Natasha said, standing. Clint stood also, both still bearing a nonchalant attitude. "Alley. I've got point. Run top side."

Nodding his agreement, Clint slipped away towards the street. Natasha set off towards the restaurant before stepping into the shadows of the narrow alley between the side of the coffee house and the side of the residential building adjacent to it. It was littered with trash and grime- cigarette butts, cans and bottles, papers and loose wrappers blown about in the wind until caught between the two buildings.

The alley was barely wide enough for two people to squeeze side by side through with shoulders together. A rusting fire escape on the somewhat dilapidated apartment complex ran two stories above her head, winding downwards to the street at the end of the building. She glided through on silent steps, eyes watching for any movement. Halfway through, a hooded figure leaned against the wall in the way the creepy guys who mug people in alleys do in those terrible movies Clint makes her watch. Coincidence though, she was sure.

She stopped three meters away, hand wavering toward the multiple various types of knives cased in the lining of the jacket she wore. She was fairly certain he was an middle aged man: thin build, about 5'10" or 5'11", ragged street clothes, no visible weapon.

After a moment the man shifted, and Natasha flicked her hand inside her jacket, fingers dancing along her favorite set of throwing knives, however she moved no further. He slowly lifted his arms, palms out, and pulled down his hood. Judging him to not be an immediate threat, Natasha decided not to skewer him on the spot.

"Mikael, I assume?" she prompted, the Russian language, proper accent included, flowing off her tongue as if she had spoken it all her life- of course, she technically had, but, no matter. She judged him to be to be in his late thirties. Shaggy, dark brown hair, pale-ish skin, a few wrinkles and blemishes, but nothing remarkably memorable. Just... average, in every way.

"Widow," he said, a slight sparkle of, well, what Clint would call crazy, in his eyes. "And where's the other one? The archer fellow. Unless, you aren't who I think you are, in which case I'm not who you think I am either."

“You can call me Natalia, and I am exactly who you were told I am. That’s all that matters.”

"I was told you would have something for me." As he spoke, Natasha watched every shift, every slight changing in tension, the angling of his body, and flick of his eyes expertly, very similar to a predator sizing up her prey. While she was looking for markers that would tell her if he was about to strike, she only saw nervous energy, like a man about to bolt. 

Reaching into her jean pocket, she pulled out an old leather wallet and tossed it to Mikael, who snatched it from the air. He flipped it open. The wallet was a discreet drop method used to give under-covers whatever information or resource they needed. It had cash, a few pictureless IDs ready for completion, and multiple credit cards registered under the names of those I.D.s. In this case however, besides serving as a resource transfer, it also served as proof that she was with SHIELD, and who he was meant to be meeting with, as was agreed upon before hand.

He pocketed the wallet. "Okay 'Natalia', I have something for you." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tossed it to her. It was rather crushed and had already been opened, half the cigarettes gone from what she could tell.

"I don't know how you prefer 'em, but I'm Russian through and through. Rip off the filters, you know?" A crazy grin spread across his face, and he opened his mouth to say something when movement caught his eye. "What the-"

The large silhouette of a man stepped in to block the far side. Natasha whirled around just in time to see another step into the alley on the side they entered.

In the single second it took to process, a muted puff from a silencer echoed off the brick walls, and Mikael stumbled backward a step before slumping against the wall, and sliding to the ground. 

Cursing, Natasha sprang into action. She dropped to a knee while pulling two razor sharp throwing blades from inside her jacket and ducking close to the wall next to Mikael's body for cover. Two more shots were immediately fired as she did so, one barely grazing her shoulder. Both the men, which she saw were in street clothes with no identifying marks, approached from both sides. As weapons were pointed at her, she rolled over her shoulder away from the wall, where now two bullet holes marked the wall, and with a flick of her wrist as she came up, the two gleaming blades were flying through the air until they came to stop with a silent thud, one buried in the neck, and the other the upper shoulder of the who had shot Mikael. The way she came was still blocked by the second figure, who was another step closer and, she was sure, aiming again at her exposed back. She didn’t spin around or even reach for another blade though. Her back was covered; that’s what partners were for, and she trusted hers.

There was a flash a movement, a streak of black, and a blurred figure dropped from the fire escape above as Natasha stood from where she was crouched, turning as she did. Clint landed directly on top of the remaining assailant on the far side of the alley with a heavy thud as he hooked a knee and arm around him just right to allow gravity to do most the work in snapping his neck as both crashed to the ground. Her partner rolled, leaping to his feet gracefully, and of course sticking the landing.

“See, the majority of the time, my falling off of buildings is intentional,” he quipped while turning to assure his unwitting target was indeed dead. 

“Lies.” Natasha was already on her feet and searching the man bleeding out across the cracked concrete, being careful to not leave fingerprints, not that hers were in any system for them to be matched to. She unsheathed her twin blades from the man’s flesh, carefully tilting him to one side so the blood spray from his severed carotid artery didn’t hit her as she withdrew the knife from his neck. She wiped them off on his jacket, and stowed them away to properly clean later. His pockets were empty; no I.D., no wallet, no anything. He had a tattoo on his neck of a skull wearing a jagged crown with a snake intertwined through its eyes though, which could serve to identify him or his associations later, so she quickly fished out her phone and snapped a picture.

Clint was beside her in a few seconds, having searched the other man. "He's clean."

"So is this one. Only a tattoo." Natasha stood, leaving the body of her fallen victim. “Nice timing, partner.”

"I try,” was his response. “No identifying papers or marks, only this,” Clint said as he lifted a serrated combat knife, carefully semi-wrapped in a handkerchief so as not to actually touch it and leave evidence, “and the gun”.

She frowned, not liking this at all. About 45 seconds had passed since Mikael had been shot. Now, they had two unidentified, dead gunmen to deal with, and a dead SHIELD contact who hadn’t yet given them much of anything, besides a half empty packet of cigarettes that were now stowed in Natasha’s jacket pocket, and who would not be telling them anything more.

They both looked over at Mikael. Blood had spilled across his chest and out of the corner of his mouth, eyes wide open and startled, his head lolled to the side. "Poor crazy bastard," Clint muttered.

Natasha went over to him, closed his eyes, and pulled the wallet she had given him from his pocket. He wouldn't be needing it. "We need to go. Doesn't seem like anyone heard the gunfire, or at least didn’t recognize the silencer rounds as gunfire, but we've been here too long."

Clint was eyeing both sides of the alley warily. "Agreed, but first," Clint looked back and forth between the three dead men. “You know we have to.”

Natasha grimaced slightly; she never liked this part, and luckily oftentimes they could simply call in a SHIELD cleanup crew to get rid of any evidence, but right now, in order to maintain their cover and avoid leaving any trail, they had to deal with the scene laid out before them, and quickly, before anyone stumbled across them and three dead bodies. Clint pressed the handle of the combat knife into the palm of the man he had taken it from before walking over and crouching down in front of the man with the knife wounds, courtesy of Natasha. He sighed, wincing as he pressed the blade twice into his still flesh, masking the smaller stab wounds in his shoulder and neck. He left the blade, bearing only the second gunman’s fingerprints, in the second wound in his shoulder, the scene now matching the blood spray painted across the concrete. As Clint took it upon himself to do the worst of the covering up, Natasha replaced the guns bearing silencers next to the two bodies appropriately, having dragged the man with the broken neck closer in to the other two. When they were done, they had staged the scene so that it could be explained well enough without the presence of two other people, namely themselves, and erased all forensic evidence that could place them there. They had already cased the block before their meeting, so they knew there were no security cameras to worry about, but they did another quick sweep anyway. There were discrepancies, but after years doing this kind of work, Clint and Natasha both knew that the local police force, overworked, underpaid, and with any number of open cases on their desks as they were, would of course have questions, but after a period of investigating turned up no obvious leads, they would accept what was in front of them and close the case.

Rushing as they were through the shadows of the dark alley, they finished their grisly task in less than two minutes. Unwilling to spend a second longer in the tight corridor which anyone could wander down at any point (though it did look pretty unfavorable and out of the way of casual foot traffic), Clint and Natasha quickly retreated down the alley towards the next street over. They circled around the far side of the block, hand in hand, looking to the world as a happy, average couple, just as they were trained to do, rather than two American government agents who had just participated in the deaths of three people. The entire affair in the alley had lasted for only minutes, and as of yet there were no suspicions, but they couldn't be too careful. 

After retrieving their supplies from the third car they had 'borrowed' in two days, they acquired yet another car, an '08 silver Acura, and got out of there as quickly as possible. Most people tend to think that driving under the radar means driving under the speed limit and cautiously obeying all traffic laws, but really it depends on where you are. That plan might work best for a suspicious, middle class US suburb, but in Russia, where there are more terrible drivers than stray cats, blinkers are laughable niceties, road signs are suggestions, and speed limits are challenges, one has to match the chaos in order to go unnoticed. 

They didn't return to their hotel room, even though they had it for another two days, but chose to drive over to another sector of the city. They needed to put some distance behind them.

"What did he give you?" Clint questioned, breaking the heavy silence for the first time and stealing a glance at her before returning his attention to the road.  
His words interrupting her distant train of though, she retrieved the cigarettes from her jacket pocket, having nearly forgotten about them. "This, old cigarette box. Open, half empty, generic American brand. No idea why he gave it to me. Didn't really have time for questions..." Staring at them angrily for a second, as if offended that they refused to tell her their secrets, she shoved them back into her pocket, her favorite vicious Russian curse words that would make Fury blush falling from her lips. “Fantastic. So now our only contact is dead, we’ve got nothing from him, and somehow, Vakhrov must know we're here, again, because who else would be trying to kill us? And the obvious question- how the hell did he know where to find us? How much of our mission, of ourselves, is compromised?" She brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs tightly. “проклятый чертов сукин сын," she swore again, biting her lip.

He sighed, one hand coming up to adjust his aides, something she noticed he did when agitated. "I don't know,” he trailed off. “We’ll be okay, Nat.” He glanced over at his partner for a brief second, but it was long enough for her to recognize the concern in his slightly furrowed brows and the hard line of his mouth. “Maybe it's time we check in with Fury."

"Because he is always just so forthcoming and helpful..." she sighed, tired, dry sarcasm evident in her words.

"But if he were any different, he just wouldn’t be the Director we know and love," he pointed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “now would he?”

Natasha, bitter as she was, couldn’t help but smile- just a little bit- at the so very Clint-esque remark. “No, guess not.”

They drove on, a more comfortable silence between them, not certain where they were really going, but there was only ever forward- never looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to comment- I love hearing from everyone! It literally always makes my day.


	11. Here's to Ditch and Run

Clint was perched on the rickety fire escape outside the window of their hotel room, which was a slight improvement over their last. He stared out across the busy intersection as pedestrians and cars went by, lights, voices, and the occasional car horn or shout of an angry driver polluting the otherwise calm night. The night air was cool, the wind only a gentle brush, and for the first time since the wheels of their jet hit down, Clint felt like he could take a breath. Sitting four stories above the scenes of normal city life, hidden by the shadows of the building and the cloak of night, he was an outside observer looking in, which he honestly prefered. He could never be one of those people walking around down there; he wasn’t one of them, and could never go back to that kind of life, ignorant of the monsters and threats behind every corner and in every seemingly benign occurrence. He supposed he was damaged somehow because of it, but being able to look on, unnoticed and unaffected, and know that he lived the way he did in order so that people like this wouldn’t ever have to be afraid of the shadows around corners or sleep with weapons under their pillows, was a small comfort in a way he wasn’t sure he could describe. It let him slow down, calm down, gave him a sense of agency.

Looking without really seeing, his mind wandered back to the alley where they had run into the two gunmen.

Natasha had said she would run point, meaning she would take lead of the situation and call the shots, which he was fine with, but it also meant she was the one to confront their elusive tail, who they had no way of knowing was a friendly at the time. That put her in the most obvious danger, while he ran top side, meaning he covered from above. He had to circle all the way around the apartment complex to the alley on the far side of it, then vault up a heap of wooden pallets and a dumpster to the fire escape stretched along the second floor and take it to the gravel strewn roof of the apartment building. He skidded to a stop at the edge above the alley Natasha had headed toward, and began a rapid but silent descent. He was at the staircase going from the third to the second level when he heard the first muffled shot. Obviously none of the civilians around recognized the silencer round, but he did, and it made his veins run cold with dread. The light was too poor and the alley too narrow to see exactly what happened, and as he renewed his efforts, abandoning stealth in favor of speed. There were more shots, and the scene beneath him became clear. After one brief and nearly paralyzingly moment to identify Natasha and locate the threat, he leaped over the railing and swung down to the iron grating barely clinging to the crumbling brick wall at the second level and dropped while propelling himself forward in one fluid movement overtop of one of his partner’s assailants.

When it was all over, he had brushed it off, maintained his composure so as to not let his partner know the effect the sound of those muted gunshots had on him in the seconds when he had lost contact with her. Sitting up above the street now, watching the oblivious citizens of Moscow wander about their daily lives, he contemplated his reaction, but more importantly, how he shouldn't have been drawn out of focus, shouldn’t have felt that swell of sudden horror- which was the only thing he could label it, looking back- when he knew Natasha was down there on her own, and that silencer certainly hadn’t been hers.

He had rushed ahead without a thought to consider his own safety- which to be honest wasn’t new, according to, well, everyone he had ever worked with- and hadn't stopped to properly examine the terrain. He remembered landing hard on top of the shoulders of the man below him, remembered the sickening jerk as his head was wrenched back, vertebrae shifting in a manner they shouldn’t, but he didn't care. At the time, his sole concern was for his partner and ensuring her safety. And for some reason, he had reacted differently than the dozens of other times he had known his partner was in jeopardy. Logically, rationally, he knew Natasha could take care of herself, knew she was skilled and very capable, but those split seconds, milliseconds really, that he sat there pondering now, had not been ones of rational thought; that was what concerned him.

He breathed in deeply, focusing on slowing his heart rate, and released. Grabbing the railing he pulled himself to his feet and paused to watch the scene below him, just clearing his mind momentarily. Resolving to push the issue aside and not allow a repeat performance, he opened the window and ducked back inside.

Natasha looked up at the noise. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, flipping through files on the SHIELD tablet. She was trying to find a connection between Vakhrov, their former contact Mikael, and SHIELD, because somehow there was a link- they just hadn’t managed to find it, which was highly concerning. When Clint was in Managua, Vakhrov got the call that must have alerted him of SHIELD's interest, and now, they had hired guns showing up at their meeting with their SHIELD contact. Clint didn’t want to believe there was an inside leak somewhere, but it was currently the only theory he had to work with.

Natasha turned the tablet off and tossed it aside as she stood and began pacing around the room. Clint leaned back against the wall and considered their options. "Nat, we need to check in soon."

She didn't respond, but retrieved the satellite phone from the bag and tossed it to him. It was their only secure line to SHIELD. Clint paused, turning it over in his hands, thinking, a frown twisting at his mouth. Making up his mind, he set it aside, earning him a questioning look from Natasha.

Clint sighed, leaning forward to rest his chin on palms, elbows propped on his knees as he sat on the bed beside her. They had to break this down, to take an objective perspective. “Fact: Vakhrov received information in Managua, leading to him canceling the deal, and fleeing.” Natasha didn’t say anything, but nodded. “Consequence: he gets away with the launch codes, SHIELD operative’s attempt to intercept him and retrieve the codes fails.”

“Agreed,” she said, continuing. “Fact: failed attempts in Managua lead SHIELD operatives to follow Vakhrov to Moscow. Also fact: hired guns show up in Moscow to kill a vital SHIELD contact which could lead said operatives to Vakhrov.”

“Assumption: the target of the hired guns is also the SHIELD operatives sent after Vakhrov.”

“Accepted.”

“Fact: both incidents, in Managua and Moscow, being significant setbacks for SHIELD, benefit Vakhrov.”

“Assumption: the connection between the two suggests they were orchestrated by Vakhrov himself.”

Clint paused. “Accepted,” he looked up at her, “that would require a source of information he does not have.”

“Shouldn’t have,” Natasha clarified. “Fact: only SHIELD operatives had knowledge of both operations, and SHIELD’s interest in Vakhrov in the first place.”

“Conclusion,” Clint took a breath, really not liking this, “Vakhrov’s source of information comes from inside SHIELD.”

Natasha didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. The evidence, and the connections, were there. It made sense; as much as they didn’t like it, it made sense.

“We can’t check in,” Clint stated matter-of-factly. 

“We’ve been compromised,” she agreed. “If we complete this,” she looked pointedly at her partner in a way that conveyed they were only continuing in Moscow if he agreed, together, “we go dark.”

Her words hung in the air. For a moment it was unsettling, unnerving even, but Clint knew backing out wasn’t an option. They would finish this; they were the only ones in a position to stop those launch codes from winding up the hands of any number of unsavory, villainy type characters. Besides, they were Avengers damnit. They had to. He met Natasha’s gaze for a moment, reading the same decisiveness there that he himself felt on the issue, and nodded. It was a small motion, but its message was loud and clear. Natasha stood again, returning to pacing the room. Essentially, what they had just agreed to was cutting all ties to SHIELD intel and backup, and to significantly deviating from protocol. SHIELD protocol for this type of situation was to basically abandon ship; the lives of operatives were considered more important than any one particular mission, so they were supposed to go underground until things were clear for them to make their way back to the States and contact a trusted handler. Yeah, Fury was gonna be pissed about this one. Her eyes wandered over to the cigarettes that lay on the desk in the damp, moldering corner. With a sudden sense of agency, she walked over and snatched them up to examine them again, this time more closely.

"This is ridiculous," she snapped, dropping the package back to the desk, allowing a few to spill out. She shoved the chair back violently and sat down, frowning at the package. "That man was obviously not stable, or suffering from a chemical dependency." They had examined the box and cigarettes very closely, reading every printed line and detail, even slicing a few open, but the results were still nothing.

"What did he say to you exactly?" Clint was at a loss, just as she was.

"He tossed me the box, said he didn't know how I preferred them, but that he was a ‘real’ Russian,” she enunciated with finger quotations, “that he-" a thought dawned on her, "ripped off the filters."

She selected a cigarette from the desk and, drawing one of her razor sharp blades, carefully cut off the filter on the end and sliced the thin paper wrappings open. Uncurling the cloth material, she delicately pulled apart the compressed layers, hoping to see something- anything.

Just when she was about to throw the whole mess of fibers aside, she saw a piece of white paper poking through the last layer. Triumphantly, she pulled the small strip free and examined it.

It had written on it two tiny lines of neatly printed black letters.

' Belorussky Station '  
' 967, 45 - 62 - 10 '

Clint, who had moved in to stand over her shoulder when she had begun to pull the filter apart, took the paper from her and read it. Taking out his phone, he typed Belorussky Station into SHIELD's database.

"It's a train station on the other side of the city. The digits are likely a locker number and combination," he declared, looking up at Natasha. 

“Then that’s where we start. But first,” she retrieved the sat phone from where it had been abandoned on the bed, “Fury needs to know. The last time we went off the reservation, we had Coulson to keep everything from going to hell, but I think we can inform Fury. Besides, if the Director of SHIELD were the mole, then we’d be well and truly fucked anyway.” She tossed the bulky phone to her partner.

“Yeah, okay. But when he’s absolutely pissed at us, I’m blaming you,” she said through a grin, dialing in the eleven digit number even as he spoke. The line picked up after a moment, but there was no response as the SHIELD analysts at the other end waited for him to identify himself.

"Operatives 7-35-alpha-8-foxtrot, 3-46-alpha-8-charlie ; preemptive strike division 7-delta," he said, tone flat, repeating a line he had said at least a hundred times before, waiting for the SHIELD operator to verify.

"Identification and division confirmed, securing connection," the agent at HQ replied.

"Direct line, 4-echo-sierra-charlie,” Clint requested, patching into the Director’s main line.

~beep~

Fury was sitting in his office reviewing files on new recruits and first year agents when his phone receiver blipped and Agent Hill’s voice came over the line.

"Sir, Agents Barton and Romanoff are calling in from Moscow."

He closed the file he had been flipping through, then reaching over a pile of assorted files and papers on his desk in front of him, he pressed the button on the receiver to turn on the speakerphone.

"About damn time. You both have consistently missed your designated check ins, to the point where I suspect something’s gone wrong whenever you do call in. I swear the only reason you find the time to pick up a sat phone is to inform me you've caused an international incident." There was begrudging annoyance in his tone.

"Sorry Sir, we-"

"Save it Barton, we both know you're not sorry for anything. What do you have?"

"Interesting you should ask. We have an agent down- our contact, no intel, two dead and unidentified gunmen, and we’d say the chances of there being more trying to track us down are pretty high. And that doesn’t even begin to sum up our current problems."

"I had heard Mikael turned up dead...I'm assuming you got something from him before he wound up in the local morgue?"

He looked at Natasha, who nodded. Come on, this was Fury they were talking about. "Well, officially Sir, we have nothing. That is, our contact didn’t have the opportunity to tell us anything before he met an untimely end at the wrong end of a silencer.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “What do you mean, ‘officially’ you have nothing, Agent Barton,” he asked, tone more like a statement than a question; it was that tone he took whenever he doubted the truth (which was always) behind whatever report Clint relayed. Clint could just picture him, permanent scowl across his face, narrowing his one good eye to stare daggers right into your soul. “What is it you’re not telling me.” That one was definitely an order, not a question.

“We’ve been compromised Sir- us and this mission- and not by our own doing. All we know is that Vakhrov has friends in high places. The right places too, because he keeps managing to stay a step ahead. But I think you know that Sir, or at least you suspect it. "

"You’re certain of this." 

“It’s the conclusion we’ve come to. As much as we don’t like the idea that Vakhrov has a mole inside SHIELD, we’re not taking any more chances. The cost of failure is too high, and following protocol in this insta-”

“Protocol is designed t-”

“Protocol is going to get us killed, and potentially a lot of other people too if we can’t intercept the auctioning of the codes in time.” Clint winced. They were so fired. Or dead. Or both.

With a sigh, Fury rubbed at his forehead. If Barton thought they were about to get chewed out, he was going to be disappointed. Unfortunately, his agents were right, and doing what they needed to do to complete the mission. “I’ve been looking into the possibility of there being a breach within SHIELD. What you’re telling me confirms this. Now listen up; I know you’ve got the attention span of a toddler but this part’s important. The official report is about to say I’ve shut this operation down, and that you two are going to ground until you can be recalled to New York. In this time, you two worry about completing your original objective. You two will be operating in the dark, and meanwhile, I’ll have Hill digging up the informant inside SHIELD. Do you copy?”

“Roger that, Sir. You won’t be hearing from either of us again in the foreseeable future.”

And with that, the connection cut out as Fury hung up the phone. The director leaned back in his chair, thinking deeply on the topic at hand. A mole inside SHIELD. A week ago, Fury would not have as easily accepted this, but now, it seemed obvious. Fury hit the intercom on the phone receiver.

"Hill, get in here, and bring the files on all agents and personnel with access to or involvement in objective 57-victor," he said.

In Moscow, Clint threw the phone onto the bed. Natasha sat besides him on the single bed in the room. (Did he mention that? Yeah, the only room with the proper security features they could get happened to be a single bed. It fit their cover anyway, and it’s not like they hadn’t shared a bed before. Hadn’t he mentioned they’d slept on cave floors before? Anyway, only one of them would be sleeping at a time while the other kept watch.) 

“Okay,” she said cautiously, considering their situation critically. “I suppose that went better than expected.”

“Yeah, sure, we’ve been in worse positions and come out with only a scrape or two,” he commented optimistically. “We’re only cut off from SHIELD in unfriendly territory, with dwindling resources, and we’ve no idea just how much of our mission is compromised.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder, a comforting, supportive sort of gesture that wasn’t typical of her. “One thing at a time, Clint.” Natasha rose from her spot on the edge of the bed next to him and pulled out her wallet and phone. “First, we burn it all.” 

Standing also, Clint handed her his phone, taking her wallet, and pulling out his own. Natasha went over to the bathroom sink where she began prying apart both of the StarkPhones, removing the sim cards and batteries, and then she tossed them under the running sink while smashing everything else she could. As untraceable as they apparently were, they weren’t risking anything. While she was doing this, Clint pulled all of the cash from their wallets and stowed it in the wallet that had initially been meant for Mikael. The incomplete IDs in it would also come in useful, considering Clint was currently shredding all of the IDs and credit cards provided to them by SHIELD, which a mole inside the organization would have knowledge of. He stepped out onto the fire escape with an ashtray so as not to set off the smoke alarms inside the hotel, then set light to all of their identifying papers and credit cards, until only a black, twisted mound of melted plastic remained. Clint shut the window, leaving the fouls smell of burning plastic to waft away outside.

It was Natasha who broke the silence first. “We ought to move on tonight, stay somewhere, get a few hours of rest before we check out the train station tomorrow during the day when it’s busy and plenty public. I'll find the locker, you keep a distance and cover me. If anyone else was there at the plaza, it’s more likely they haven’t seen you because I was the one to follow Mikael into the alley. Let’s keep it that way. They won’t be looking for you; better to keep an element of surprise."

Clint was about to object, but couldn't think of a logical reason why. He just didn’t like the idea of putting Natasha in the direct line of fire again while he stayed back. He clenched his jaw, which Natasha noticed but said nothing of, and nodded his agreement. “Alright. Grab everything; let’s move out.”

They again gathered their things, found a new ride, and set off to find yet another crappy hotel or motel to stay for a short while before they would move on to the train station, and from there, wherever it took them. Their window of opportunity for locating Vakhrov and intercepting the codes was quickly closing, and Clint just hoped they would actually find something of value at the train station tomorrow, or else they would be out of leads.


	12. Here's to Panics and Partners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA. HA. HA. You are welcome.

"See that grey Sedan?" Natasha asked, glancing at the side mirror.

"Yeah, been following us for the last ten minutes," he replied, not bothering to turn around. “Didn’t think much of it, but after the last three right turns, I was beginning to get a little suspicious. Here,” he directed, motioning ahead. “Swing this left."

Natasha, who was driving, turned the right blinker on at the stop sign, and they both saw the Sedan do the same. She then proceeded to turn left. A few cars back, the other driver seemed to slow for a moment, then also turned left after them, contradictory to the blinker. Yep, they were definitely being tailed. 

"Take it around the block. You barricade, I'll bail out into the side street back there. Meet me at the intersection two ahead," Clint offered, talking fast while twisting around to dig a set of lock picks from their bags in the back seat.

After nearly completing a circle around the block, while their tail was out of sight around the corner of an office building, Natasha slowed to about 5 mph and Clint swung the door open, jumped out carrying both backpacks, one slung over shoulder and the other in hand, and used his momentum to shut the door behind him in one fluid motion, which was relatively easy to do at such a slow speed. He ducked under the overhang of the doorway of a storefront as Natasha returned to normal speed and their tail drove by him, oblivious.

Natasha carried on around the block then turned into another side street on the right, which was more like an alley solely used for parking purposes, barely wide enough for one car before it opened up slightly toward the back just enough for some trashcans and pile of musty cardboard boxes to line the side. She stopped the car in its tracks half way down. Squeezing out between the graffitied brick wall and the car door, she slipped into the shadows of a narrow footpath between two buildings cutting perpendicular to the side street. She stopped though, turned and waited, knowing she was well hidden by the corners and shadows, wanting to get eyes on the Sedan's driver.

The vehicle that had been following them cut the corner sharply, already a full car length into the trash littered, narrow side street, before coming to a sudden stop, breaks creaking, having noticed Natasha’s abandoned vehicle blocking the way. Hardly a moment passed until the driver's side door opened and a man dressed in dark jeans, a black leather jacket, work boots, and a grey t-shirt stepped out, turning his head this way and that as he carefully checked his surroundings, a hand hidden within his jacket in way that Natasha knew he was gripping a handgun away from view, holstered at his side. He wore dark sunglasses and had a simple crew cut, but Natasha could see a thin silvery scar stretch down his face from left temple to the corner of his mouth on the same side. A woman with dark hair, straightened and cut so it fell like a curtain around her head and the sides of her face, posture ramrod straight, one hand also hidden within her blazer jacket, barely managed to slip out of the passenger’s side door. The man struggled around to the front of the Sedan, drawing his weapon as he cleared the car Natasha had abandoned, checking it was indeed abandoned, while the woman had slipped around to the back of their vehicle, covering the entrance of the street. Both were in their late twenties or early thirties (like themselves). By their synchronized movements- their diligent sweep of the alley and car, their positioning to cover each others’ back, and the subtle gestures communicated between them- she could tell they were trained. The earpiece she glimpsed on the man, and the identical com device she assumed the woman had also hidden behind her hair, suggested they weren’t working alone, and were in close contact with or taking orders from a third party, because they wouldn’t need those to communicate between themselves. 

The man raising a hand to his com and muttering some phrases in Czech, which Natasha identified but unfortunately did not speak (she actually only knew how to say ‘thank you’, ‘fuck you’, and ‘I will stab your eyes out’, long story), supported the theory that they too, like their deceased friends from the other day, were were taking orders from someone; they weren’t agents from any organization though- their movements felt off, different somehow, and Natasha couldn’t quite place why, but it just didn’t sit right with her. No, more likely private security or mercenaries, either way, hired guns. The look of them (those too uniform haircuts mostly), and their movements, as well as the context of their mission, supported that theory better.

Regardless, as the seconds ticked by, Natasha was unwilling to stay crouched in the shadows of the filthy crevice between the buildings any longer, and she slipped away into the darkness, moving away and toward the main street the next block over. Could she have taken them out? Yes. She would have needed her handgun rather than her preferred choice of much more silent blades, however, which would have meant gunshots in a busy, public area, and there were two of them, the woman having easy cover behind the Sedan. The risk was too high, and it was not what she and her partner had agreed upon. 

All risk aside, the easiest way to fuck up in the field and get somebody hurt, or worse, was to abandon agreed upon plans without being able to communicate the change to your partner. Years of experience working with Clint as Strike Team Delta had taught her this. The road there had been rough; both of them were the lone-wolf assassin types before their were partnered together, so it’s easy to imagine how many deviations from plan, how many risky, last minute, on the fly maneuvers, and calculated judgements of the other’s ability to play catch-up were made in the early days. However, they had quickly learned to step into their roles as partners, and even close friends, becoming SHIELD’s single most effective rapid response division, ‘ever in the history of ever’ as Clint had once described it, she mused fondly. So no, she was not about to take them on herself.

Natasha weaved through alleys and dark unused footpaths between densely packed buildings, scaling low walls and a rusted chain link fence before she was happy with the distance between herself and those two she left behind, and stepped out onto the busy sidewalk along the congested avenue. As she did so, nearing the intersection Clint had indicated, she matched pace with a small cluster of pedestrians meandering by the storefronts, then when the crowd thinned momentarily, saw her partner lounging against the side of an idling navy blue Camry. He caught sight of her as she weaved through moving bodies toward him, and he ducked into the driver's seat. When she joined him, slipping into the front seat across from her partner, he pulled out, driving in the opposite direction of the train station.

"Any trouble?" he inquired, eyes on the road as he maneuvered the car through dense traffic.

“No, I’d say we’ve lost them.” Natasha continued, relaying her observations and conclusions regarding the two occupants of the Sedan they had left behind. Clint nodded, not saying much but generally agreeing with her thoughts on the matter, trusting her judgement, as he himself had not seen what she did. 

After a good half hour of driving in the wrong direction, zig-zagging through the city in no one particular direction, they were confident they had lost anyone who may have been following them, and Clint turned back along a different, indirect route toward the train station.

When they were just a little ways out, they stopped in a parking garage. They unloaded their bags, picked the lock to a tiny maintenance room near the staircase, and stowed their bags containing the more nonessential supplies and equipment, keeping most of their less obvious weaponry, their cash, and blank IDs on their persons, recognizing in case of emergency they may not be able to make it back to the rest of their gear, which consisted mostly of clothing, larger and more fun weapons, tactical gear and body armor, surveillance gear, etc. All of it very useful in different situations, however none it was absolutely necessary for the worst case scenario, which was abandoning the mission, and going completely off the grid- absolutely nonexistent where not even SHIELD could locate them- for as long as it took. They jammed the door shut behind them, not locking it, in case they were in a hurry, but securing it in a way that a quick, solid kick would send the door open. 

Then they split up, as previously agreed upon on the drive there, Natasha taking a more direct route while Clint kept his distance, not just keeping constant surveillance of his partner but of their surroundings and any possible threats. Natasha hated walking through crowds without any cover like those that occupied the open main platform of the building, however there was no one she trusted more to have her back, no one who she felt could better watch the crowd for threats she herself couldn’t pick up on, than her partner. He always did see better from a distance, Natasha noted mentally, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The dense crowds and incessant chatter from people and from the constant directions over the crackling intercom made keeping a close eye on Natasha difficult for Clint, especially when trying to remain discrete, and the background noise wrecked havoc on his hearing (the aides were never good at picking much up when there was too much general noise) but Clint managed. She made it up to the lockers with no trouble, gracefully weaving through masses of plodding station-goers like she was skating across ice, fluid and beautiful in her movements- it was something Clint had always admired about her. He leaned against one of the few unoccupied spaces of wall and bluffed interest in a local newspaper, but was careful to watch for anyone out of place, anyone that seemed to be keeping surveillance or trailing too closely to his partner.

She found the locker quickly enough, though walked past it twice, making her intended destination seem to be the coffee cart or embarking platform each time, carefully eyeing her surroundings, just as precautions. Natasha’s voice came over their coms; “How are we looking?”

“Clear on all fronts,” Clint affirmed, idly flipping a page. “Though approach with caution,” he offered, a typical warning, not indicative of any actual perceived danger.

She walked through the rows of lockers once more, stopping before their number, and he watched her turn the dial, entering the combination, and open pull it open, ever so slowly at first, sweeping over the open crack to check for hazards or trip wires. She took a quick look around as innocently as possible, feigning at sweeping her hair back, and the locker apparently being clear of any pitfalls, she pulled a smallish navy blue duffel bag from the bottom of the locker, swinging the strap over her shoulder and closing the door after it.

Per their prearranged agreement, she headed towards the West exit and Clint followed, still keeping his distance.

Just as Clint was allowing himself to believe everything had gone according to plan, and that their timely exit would run as smoothly as intended without any obstacles or dangers, warning bells went off in Clint's head. He saw two people, both men in dark suits, detach themselves from the throngs of people as they entered through the West door, exactly where Natasha was headed. To the average observer there was nothing amiss or out of place about them, plenty of people were wearing suits in there, but Clint was not that.

One guy sat down on a bench, placing a suitcase down besides him, and the other leaned casually into a pillar, selecting a newspaper from a nearby stand and flipping through it. Both were conveniently in either side of the exit, just 20 meters apart, and both had slight geometric bulges at their right hips, telling Clint they were armed. They also had earpieces.

Moving quickly, though still managing to blend in with the movements of the crowd, Clint went to intercept his partner at the end of the row of lockers. At the same time, immediately after he had placed the threat, he alerted her over the coms.

“Tasha, West exit not clear, I repeat, not clear. Two suits, armed. No movement.”

He saw Natasha, without breaking stride or betraying any emotion, shift her path away from the exit, instead disappearing behind a row of lockers, where she stopped, out of site of the exit. Clint moved toward her position, at the same time peering through and over the crowd toward the East main exit. What he saw did not make the situation more hopeful. More suits, covering the exit. Along the way, he threw casual glances left and right toward emergency exits and along the side, feeling the familiar dregs of panic rising in his chest, though he mentally squashed them, violently shoving them down. That wouldn’t help anything. There were more at each potential exit point, typically alone, rather than in pairs, arriving and taking position even as he clocked them. 

“Options?” Natasha’s voice came through the coms.

“I’m coming to you. I count seven unfriendlies; they’re still showing up, just now taking positions at the exits. Likely more around the building. They don’t have eyes on us, but they’re scanning the crowd.”

“Holding my position.”

Keeping his head down, Clint ducked and weaved through the masses of people. He rounded the wall of lockers, out of site of the exits, where he last saw his partner vanish. And there she was, waiting for him. He took a breathe, for some reason feeling just marginally better about their situation now that they weren’t separated any more- less risk, more options. He leaned back against the row of lockers next to her, the multiple other rows jutting out from the wall hiding them from sight, and creating a quiet little bubble, separate from the thousands of people milling around inside the cavernous central terminal. 

In a low tone and murmured voices, they planned their next moves. “Diversion?” she asked, shifting the lean one shoulder into the metal behind her, facing him. 

“Probably. I really don’t like the idea of a shootout in here, Nat. Too many targets, too many civilian casualties, then, police and news coverage. Neither of which we need.”

“I know. We can’t make a hard exit.”

“There aren’t all that many of them, and there are a lot of civilians in here. There’s constant crowd flow in and out of every exit and side terminal. I like our odds of being able to slip out of here.”

“Yes, but if they know who they’re looking for specifically, if the mole in SHIELD gave them our names and faces, then the crowd won’t be moving fast enough, and in too many directions to hide us.”

“That’s a risk we might have to take. We’re running out of time and options, and then there’s the whole matter of how they found us in the first place, assuming these are the same people we’ve had previous run-ins with.”

“From what I saw, movements and gear are the same, but the identical haircuts are more telling.” Clint’s brows pinched together, making the face he always made when he was a little lost or confused, which Natasha found to be a little endearing. She clarified, “Do you see SHIELD regulating agents’ haircuts? Or any other government agency or organization, for that matter? Uniforms, maybe, but not haircuts, thank god. Do you realize who does regulate that? Private security firms; it’s why all mercs look the same.”  
“Oh, yeah, that’s fair. That aside though, we left behind all our traceable tech at the last motel, trashed out phones and known IDs, we’ve not been caught on any cameras, and we ditched our last tail. Am I the only one who thinks that them finding us is a little disconcerting?”

“No, you’re right. I don’t know how they found us here at the station, but the fact that they don’t have our actual location here inside the building, and they don’t seem to know we were here for the locker, and that no one at SHIELD knows we were coming here, tells me that one, they have to have a GPS tracker on something we’ve brought with us, and two, it has to be in the gear we left, and not on either of us or whatever we’ve got with us.”

“Damnit, damnit you’re right. We can’t go back for any of it then. They’ve played their hand finding us here, and hell, they’ve probably already located our bags. But at least now we can focus on getting the hell out of here without worrying about them tracking us down again. I only wonder why they waited to move in on us now, in the most public of places, when they could have breached any of the hotels sooner and much easier.”

“I don’t know. It would have had to have been the mole in SHIELD to plant a tracker on out equipment, fuck, it’s probably SHIELD’s own tech- no wonder we didn’t find it; those fuckers can be tiny. It could be that the mole couldn’t relay any of until now, given Fury and Hill are hunting them down.”

“Likely scenario. Let’s-” she went rigid, eyes catching movement at the opening of the row of lockers behind Clint’s back. “Damnit,” she swore, before she stepped right into Clint, pushing his shoulders flat against the locker behind him, one hand going to the nape of his neck, the other flat on his chest, and without any more warning than the two seconds it took her to do that, she was kissing him. 

Right on the mouth. Okay.

His hands when automatically to her hips. He may have made a surprised sound, a sharp inhalation that left his mouth parted slightly, probably, because this was no PG family friendly peck on the lips. No, no it was, it was, something…there may have been tongue involved, but Clint’s brain stopped working so he would have to get back to that later. Her lithe body was pressed flush against his, one hand pressing him back against the wall, the other fingers curling, scratching his scalp lightly, tugging none-too-gently at his hair, and pulling his mouth down to meet hers, her face upturned to make up for the height difference. 

From the corner of his eye, he recognized one of the suits moving past their row, seeing them but quickly averting his gaze, expression awkward. Oh, that explains it. At that point, Clint returned the kiss (which didn’t at all describe it- Jesus, it was like they were horny teenagers or something), giving as good as he got. PDA was actually a pretty good trick for maintai- but wow, okay, Natasha wasn’t stopping. Yeah, there was definitely tongue involved now, not that he was sure who started it, and not that he minded it or anything- you know, for their cover, it was effective.

He pressed forward, then turned their bodies so it was Natasha pushed against the lockers, his broad shoulders and corded arms caging her in, and his hands gripping tightly at her hips keeping her in place. It was then he pushed away, using his grip on her to break themselves apart, taking a breath he hadn’t been aware he needed, only then realizing it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. He put that to the fact that their unwelcome friends were now moving through the massive room in an organized fashion, looking like they were clearing quadrants at a time, scanning the crowd. 

Her hands fell away from him, grazing down the front of his chest over ridges of well defined muscle until they fell to her sides. She looked entirely put together, her pupils dilated in round disks though, and she looked a little flushed, but the lighting wasn’t great and it was a little hot in there, whereas Clint felt frazzled, trying desperately to straighten his thoughts and calm his pulse. Clint released her, shuffling backward a small step.

“We, ah, we have to,” he motioned absently toward the exit, trailing off.

“Get out of here, I know. Sorry for the lack of warning, but,” she tilted her head toward the mercs.

“Yeah, yeah, s’fine. We ah, we’re definitely gonna need something to get the crowd moving now.”

“Take this.” She shoved the duffel bag into his hands. “West exit, original plan, one caveat- Istanbul, ‘07,” she said with a devious smile that made his knees feel weak, and then she was slipping away. 

“What?” he hissed. “Tasha, no-” but she was moving into the crowd now, and damnit, he really hated what went down in Istanbul. But shit, fuck all, she might be right that it was what they needed now. Another deep breath to get himself under control. “Woman, you’ll be the death of me,” he muttered to no one but himself. Then he was moving, duffel slung over his shoulder, head down to avoid the roving eyes of the mercs. 

He drew near the West exit, sticking close to the wall, and idling out of sight of the remaining suit stationed beside it. Any minute now… 

Three loud gunshots split the air in quick succession, ringing off the walls, echoing across the huge marble and stone room, and sending the crowd into a panicked frenzy. This was why he hated this plan. They surged from the middle of the room, pressing forward in all directions toward the exits, people screaming and chaos descending on all their heads. He recognized getting the crowd moving toward the exits was what they needed- in fact, the crowd was their greatest advantage in this situation- but Clint really didn’t want any civilians getting trampled because Natasha had fired off her weapon into the floor in the middle of one of the busiest train stations in the city. He jumped up onto a bench, no longer concerned about the mercs milling around, as they had quickly been swept away by the stampeding herd. He identified Natasha by her brightly colored hair as she struggled to get over to him, but no matter how strong she was, her small frame proved to make fighting the tide of bodies a significant challenge. 

Clint shoved into the screaming mob, somehow fighting over to where his partner was struggling to stay afloat without sending anyone to the ground to be trampled, and hooked an arm through hers to prevent them from being pulled apart by the surge. Then, it was easy to let the crowd carry them through the exit, down the corridor, and outside.  
Everyone was running; civilians, security and police officers. Police squad cars and ambulances were roaring up onto the sidewalks, wailing sirens adding to the noise of screams and shouts of confusion and fear. And no one payed any attention to Clint and Natasha, who cut across the plaza, running for a nearby parking structure. 

At the ground level, they rounded a sharp corner and took the stairs up. When they were at the base of the stairs to the second level, Clint and Natasha were both taken by surprise by man and a woman- same suits and haircuts- materializing in front of them at the turn of the staircase as they were rushing down, stopping dead in their tracks maybe seven steps above them. 

Clint and Natasha didn’t pause for a moment though, unlike their now obviously less trained, less skilled opponents. Clint leaped up the few stairs in three strides, slamming bodily into the man, taking him right back into the wall, his head cracking against the concrete. Natasha was just as quickly at his side again, dodging to the side and catching the woman’s elbow when she struck out at her, and forcibly yanking her off balance. The man lashed out at Clint’s abdomen with a knife he hadn’t seen him pull, forcing Clint to jump backward. His hands in front of him, ready this time, when the man struck out again, Clint retaliated with a dodge, then a duck and he stood, blocking his forearm with one hand, jabbing the man’s abdomen with the other, and in a rapid flurry of movements, Clint had his disarmed, and turned the knife on it’s owner. At the same time, Natasha kicked sideways at the woman’s knee, causing the her to cry out sharply before she twisted, the woman’s right arm still in her grip, pulling her over her shoulder and slamming her down into the descending steps. She went limp after her head clashed with the concrete, tumbling down a few steps, and not moving again. The man Clint had tangled with slumped to the ground, combat knife protruding from the center of his chest. 

They exchanged a quick glance, and then they were moving again, vaulting up the stairs, then running across the level, stopping at an average vehicle. Natasha knelt down next to the driver side door, pulling a set of picks from her inside jacket pocket while Clint watched the otherwise empty garage level for any other party crashers.

“They were probably keeping surveillance from the top of the structure while their buddies went in the weed us out. Saw everything go to shit down there, and came running.” Natasha finished her task as she spoke.

Clint moved around to the now unlocked passenger's seat, Natasha having slid into the other side. She then pried apart the dash to get to the wires underneath, dexterous fingers flying over wires, small blade in hand, cutting the appropriate ones apart, stripping them, and splicing them together. They sparked, and the engine sprang to life. 

“It’s got a nice view; that’s where I would be,” Clint agreed, still eyeing the rest of the garage for any more trouble, twisting about in his seat to do so. Natasha wasted no time in getting hem out of the parking structure, tearing around corners and flying toward the exit. Luckily, it was long term parking that required payment beforehand, so there was no awkward stopping and rooting around for the appropriate cash in pockets.

Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into a half hour of tense silence, looking over shoulders and checking mirrors, pulses still elevated and senses still on high alert. Half an hour turned into an hour, the sun having risen high in the sky by now. Contrary to their recent string of unfortunate look, however, it seemed that they had made it away clean- to tail, no shady mercs, no wailing police sirens. Finally, finally, Clint took a breath, allowing himself a sigh of relief. 

The duffel they had gone to all of that trouble for, that Clint had shoved into the back seat, was recalled to his attention. "Did you get a chance to take a look inside it yet?"  
"No. Tell me if there's anything interesting,” she added, not taking her eyes from the road.

He grunted noncommittally. Clint carefully unzipped the bag and shuffled through its contents: a role of cash (very helpful), a stack of folders with pictures and papers nearly spilling out, held together by some rubber bands, was nestled at the bottom, along with a flash drive, and an envelope. Clint said as much, relaying the information to his partner. He selected the unmarked envelope, opening it, and emptying the contents out into his hand. There was a key- small, shiny metal, average- and a scrap of paper. Setting everything else aside, he unfolded the small piece of paper and saw the same handwriting scrawled across it as the tiny print from the cigarette. Their contact was helping them, even from the grave.

“What is it?” Natasha inquired.

"Address. 425 Ulitsa Lenina," he replied.

"It say what’s there?" 

"If we’re trusting this,” he said, looking up, “a SHIELD safe-house." The potential in his words hung heavily in the air for a moment. 

Natasha bit her lower lip, thinking. They did need a place to lie low for a bit, and after being forced to abandon what meager supplies they had after the place was crawling with mercs, a SHIELD safe-house, which was free, private, offered security, and oftentimes served as drop spots for supplies for field agents, was a tantalizing offer. However, they were trying to distance themselves from SHIELD, seeing as there was a mole in the organization, which made it a risk.

Natasha said as much, voicing her concerns. 

“I know it’s a risk, but this is coming from Mikael, not from inside SHIELD. Plus, no one in SHIELD, and no one working for Vakhrov, would have any reason to know we have this information, seeing as they thought they killed him before he said anything. Even if they know he passed along information that lead us to this,” he said, motioning toward the duffel, “they wouldn’t know what’s in it. And, this is probably Mikael’s EFL. No one at SHIELD would know about it.”

EFLs, or emergency fallback locations, were not typical SHIELD safe-houses; they weren’t kept on the books, or passed around from agent to agent, op to op, whenever they were needed. Rather, they were the single, highly classified, safe and well stocked emergency locations provided to long-term assignment undercover operatives, given how they were cut off from SHIELD backup, that only they know of, in case something were to go wrong. So, if this was the safe-house Mikael knew of, because his assignment was high profile and long-term, that’s probably what it was. Meaning, then, it was likely as safe as they could hope it to be, and probably worth the risk.

“Alright.” Natasha nodded, making up her mind. “Safe-house it is.”

Clint didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to. He stretched back, appearing to be relaxed, but checking the mirrors for anything suspicious for what must have been the hundredth time that day. At this point though, they couldn’t be too careful. He began to play back the events of their assignment. They had gone from bad to worse really: the jet, crappy hotel, dead contact and gunmen, crappy motel (somehow he lost track of all of the places they stayed, there were probably more- all of the generic crappiness blended together), tail in the alley, countless stolen vehicles, more motels (crappy of course), enacting ‘ghost’ procedures, mole in SHIELD, train station fuck up, he made out with his partner- oh god, he definitely made out with his partner, and it, well, it seriously threw him off (so maybe it didn’t belong on the list of totally crappy things that had happened to him, but he was currently at a loss on where exactly to categorize it, so it would stay there for now)- and they caused a stampede, then lost all their tac gear, and now, maybe, just maybe, one itty bitty upside after one, gigantic, never ending clusterfuck. Holy hell, Clint really wanted this to be an upside.


	13. Here's to... Complications

Their car rolled up to the front of the apartment building. Except, well, ‘apartment building’ didn’t quite describe it.

"This will do," Natasha stated, putting it mildly.

"Yeah," Clint replied, a not yet able to tear his eyes away from the structure. “I think this may top the list of places we’ve stayed at so far.

She shrugged, very nonchalant and feigning disinterest, but the well concealed smirk told him it was just to goad him. There was no doubt this topped the chart.

The gleaming white marble and masonry apartment complex rose seven stories into the air above them. Its 18th century design was reminiscent of a horseshoe shape, with a well manicured courtyard, and fountain in the center. Pillars, balconies, and decorative railings and stonework all adorned the outside of it. According to Mikael's note, one of the top floor apartments was a SHIELD prepped and maintained safe-house. 

Putting the glamour aside for a moment, Natasha and Clint looked at the building from a tactical standpoint, and found it more than suitable.

The building was elevated above the street level and surrounding landscape and buildings by the slight slope of the hill, and the other buildings were set apart by the rare green space that there was just enough distance to prevent access via surrounding rooftops, all of which were also below their safe-house’s roof line, making them unsuitable sniper positions. The building's gently sloping but mostly flat roof with decorative railing around its perimeter made it ideal for surveillance. There was no fire escape or easy method of reaching the roof or upper levels from outside the building. Beside the main doors out front there were only a set of back doors (which they saw upon circling the premise a few times in their reconnaissance), and first floor windows were set high above the ground (too high to easily scale up and breach) and were covered by metal decorative yet very functional bars, meaning there were only two infiltration points. These made the building as a whole relatively defensible. For a fast escape, however, the second floor windows were plenty low enough to the ground to jump from and there were plenty of them situated all around the complex. Finally, the landscaping did not create any coverage for approaching ground units, so with a 360 degree clear line of sight from the rooftop or upper story windows, there could be no surprise visitors.

They circled a few time, making sure the building was suitable for their purposes (and it very much was), before they ditched their ride a ways away and slipped back, taking the back door. Upon closer inspection, they saw the building was rigged with all sorts of surveillance cameras and security motion sensitive floodlights. They managed to avoid the lights, but the cameras were strategically place to catch all angles, which was probably a good thing considering it was a safe-house; still, being forced to just put your head down and be caught on camera didn’t invoke a pleasant feeling when Clint had been conditioned for years to not do exactly that. 

Once inside, they took the stairs to the top floor. (There were elevators, but whenever they could help it they avoided those; it was just safer that way.) The top floor was beautiful; all white marble and arches and deep crimson rugs and wall hangings... Not to mention a wonderful view and balcony. 

Inside their apartment though (which was massive, one of the only three top floor apartments, and covering the entire West wing), they saw SHIELD had really decked the place out. There were monitors of all of the strategically placed hidden cameras that were around the building, alarm systems triggered by the motion detectors and floodlights, a complete lock-down procedure for the apartment complete with electro-magnetic locks, two inch reinforced steel door and window panels, and an internal panic room, radio transmission blockers, and, god bless, a stocked mini-armory complete with emergency go-bags and cash.

Christmas had come early.

After they both took turns getting much needed clean showers and had a quick meal (the kitchen was stocked with MREs) , letting the now armed and alert, very capable security system do its job so they didn’t have to rotate watch, they sat down on the plush cream colored couch in the living room and laid the rest of the contents of the duffle bag out on the mahogany coffee table.

Natasha pulled her knees up and sat cross legged on the cushion, balancing a coffee mug full of the steaming liquid Clint had offered her expertly on her thigh. She reached out and flicked through the items before them. First was yet another file on Vakhrov, mostly focused on his smuggling business and known operations warehouses and stockyards. Then, more interestingly, shoved into the file was an envelope with surveillance pictures inside. Taking them out, she laid them one by one out on the table. In a few of them she saw a familiar face; the man with the scar that was following them earlier, who most definitely worked for Vakhrov, who was also in the majority of pictures. Some of the images appeared to be of a meeting outside a restaurant between him, another fellow in a business suit sitting across from him, and a man who took care to stay in the shadows who they were also meeting with. He wore a ball cap and street clothes, and positioned himself in the shadows and behind a pillar so that there was no clear view of his face in any of the photos.

"Where were these taken?" she wondered aloud, her curiosity peaked.

"The window sign out front, from the parts we can see, is in English,” Clint mused, sitting beside her. “And based on the civilians walking through these shots here,” he slid a few pictures out from their rows, “clothing and ethnicities and all that, plus the sign, I'd say they were taken in the States." Clint finished, picking up one of the photos. "Shame we don't have a view of this guy's face."

"And then there's this," Natasha said, plucking up a small flash drive from the pile. Clint motioned for her to toss it over, and catching it, he plugged it into a laptop they had picked up (well, okay, stolen) along the way to the safe-house. 

They needed to stay under the radar, which meant destroying all of their traceable technology, but to help them stay off the grid they also needed access to the internet for local news and information, as well as to hack into the local police database and broadband radio. (Natasha was actually pretty good with the whole computers and hacking thing.) After some discussion, they decided the benefits outweighed the very slim risk of someone being able to use the stolen device to track them.

"Encrypted," he said, shaking his head at the flashing letters across the screen.

Natasha frowned, sipping from her mug. “There are SHIELD computers here with the software programming to break in easily, but as much as we risked coming here in the first place, activating any of the computers or technology here could alert SHIELD, and anyone there, particularly our problematic friend, who could then put the pieces together and trace us to this location." 

With a few deft strokes of the keys, Clint closed out of the locked file and then removed the offending drive. “That’s one risk I’m not willing to take.” She hummed her agreement; as usual, they were on the same page about this sort of thing.

He set the laptop aside, and Natasha picked the file back up, scanning the pages more thoroughly. Clint set his own coffee aside, leaning in closely to read over her shoulder. As she flipped pages, a stray curl of scarlet hair slipped out from her messy bun, falling across the side of her face. The way the light from the evening sun through the window made the red colors caught his attention. He stared for a moment, at her, thoughts slipping away for just that moment, his attention unnoticed by Natasha, her head bowed, intently examining the file. The light made her soft skin seem to glow, casting slight shadows across the gentle curves and angles of her jaw, neck, and brow. He caught a gentle whiff of perfume, or maybe it was the shampoo- it was a spring-like, pleasant fresh smell.

It struck him, like an actual, physical blow right to his chest, how beautiful she was in that moment. He caught himself wanting to reach out and tuck the stray curl behind her ear, and had to stop himself, clenching his hand in a tight fist. Biting the inside of his cheek sharply, he focused on the discomfort, and brought his wandering thoughts back to the more appropriate topic at hand.

"Look here," she said, looking up suddenly, eyes bright in the familiar way that told him she had something. She handed him the papers, which he took, examining the portion she indicate to.

"Oh, a gala. Finally, new information we can work with," he said, grinning lopsidedly.

In the file, among the things they already knew, was some fresh information on Vakhrov's more recent activities. Apparently, in what was likely an effort to gather his potential buyers discretely while at the same time ensuring his own safety, their mark was throwing a party for a close associate, the young heir to a South African blood diamond tycoon. It was smart really: emerge from hiding to do the urgent business he required but stay under the radar by making sure some of the wealthiest, most powerful, and most despicable people he knows are in the building with him.

"It's going to be at this hotel, the Wielshire, two days from now," she said, reading, "Looks like he rented out the reception and banquet halls. If we're going off this file, it makes it pretty likely that Vakhrov is staying at the hotel; looks like a penthouse suite."

"Then we need to get in there if we're going to find the codes, destroy them, and prevent the sale or transfer," he said, pushing himself off the couch and walking to nowhere in particular. “Security will be tight.”

"Agreed," she nodded. "I wonder if there is a well stocked closet in here. Probably not, but oh well, plenty of cash. Come on Clint, time to do some shopping. This is a formal gathering after all."

“Aww, girls and their shopping,” he complained, small, tired grin slipping across his face. “Can’t that wait until tomorrow?” He stretched his arms over his head, arching his back, stifling a yawn. Natasha couldn’t help but notice the strip of smooth muscle across his abdomen revealed, his shirt riding up when he stretched. Clint flopped down dramatically, snuggling down as far as he could into an almost ridiculously over-padded armchair. The content hum, him burrowing down comfortably, and that smug expression told Natasha that getting her partner to move anytime soon would be fighting a losing battle. 

“Alright,” she amended. “It’s getting late. We’ve not had a proper night’s sleep in a few days, and the gala isn’t for another day, anyway. But that means we go shopping, make ID’s and cover stories, and scope the place out tomorrow. Agreed?” 

“Sure thing, wifey dearest.” He chuckled quietly to himself, eyes closed,

“Wifey dearest?” Her expression was that of someone not at all amused, which he would have noticed had he opened his eyes, but he could tell by the cold, a little bit questioning tone of her voice anyway.

“What? Just getting into character. That’s always the cover we use, isn’t it? Unless you want to go as an escort this time. Those are our options.” He flinched, knowing the boots were coming his way before she threw them, without even opening his eyes, just from experience. “Don’t throw things at me,” he muttered, pushing them to the ground.

“Well, if we’re getting into character,” she said in that sweet, innocent voice she used on marks before she killed them in some terrible way (it was actually really attractive, and really, really scary to Clint- and he recognized it, opening his eyes to glare at her suspiciously). She gracefully stood up from the couch, slinking over to him, hips swaying. He recognized that walk too- it was the seductive prowl that always accompanied the murdery voice. He was a lot suspicious, and a little afraid, so to say. “If I’m your trophy wife, or the ridiculously expensive escort, either one really, and we’re in town for this gala for all the criminal top one percent types..” she said dangerously softly, words slipping out smoothly, as she moved toward him. 

Clint’s voice was caught in his throat, and he felt paralyzed for some reason, suddenly very alert and awake when he was almost dozing off comfortably moment before; everything she was doing, her fluid movements, the sway of her hips, her quiet, silvery smooth words, even the look in her eyes and her slightly parted mouth, all of it, was exactly what she did to seduce marks, except, it was lacking the predatory undertone. Suddenly, she was straddling him on the chair, her hands crawling up his chest, her face inches away. He may have forgotten how to breathe. And he had no idea what she was doing, but everything else, every other thought or sensation, fell away.

“Then,” she continued, just barely whispering, hot breathe against his neck. He felt a shiver run down his spine. “I guess we’d be doing this, wouldn’t we… except maybe on a bed…” What the fuuuu… Okay, he may have forgotten how to breath, and his heart may have stopped.

“Um, Nat?” was all he managed to stutter before, just as suddenly as it had changed, her demeanor shifted back, and she rolled off of him and to her feet, laughing as she padded out of the room. 

He was left reeling. Heart pounding, breath finally returning. He laughed, more releasing a pent up breath than anything, calling out “Troll,” as she left, voice surprisingly casual for how he felt. 

And then he was mentally kicking himself. He could not think of Natasha that way. Nope, no, never. She was his partner for christ’s sake, they worked together, but more than that, she was his friend- it took a long, very, long, time, to get to that point. Being friends. Being someone she trusted, actually trusted, when she didn’t trust anyone. And given her major trust issues due to her history with relationships and the Red Room and everything in her past, he was NOT about to ruin what they had, NOT about to scare her away. God damnit Barton, get it together.

Natasha, on the other hand, was not at all feeling as calm and collected as she looked when she slipped, laughing breathlessly, from the room. She wanted a cold shower. Her nerves felt frayed, jumpy. She should not have done that. She played it off like a joke or something when she left, but it was a mistake, and left what felt like an awkward tension between them. Now, right before a mission, when they were dangerously vulnerable and on their own, was not the freaking time to put any sort of tension between them. They needed to be able to work fluidly together, seamlessly as always, without any doubts. Hell, what did she just do.

Her heart was thrumming in her chest, so loudly she was sure Clint must have heard it. It was like something had possessed her to do it. Why did she have to feel this, this, whatever the hell it was around her partner? I was an emotion so foreign to her, and something she physically reacted to. She put it down to a physical attraction; that she could rationalize, that, she could explain and put aside. And she wasn’t oblivious. She’d seen him react, pupils dilating, breath hitching, slight pulse at his neck elevated. Why? Because he was only a man, and she knew that she was beautiful- hell, she had been trained for years on the art of seduction, so no matter how he was a nice guy, no matter how much he respected her as a person, he didn’t stand a chance. 

So didn’t that also explain her own reaction? What? Her partner was attractive, yes, and any woman that was the result of evolution would agree with her. Broad shoulders and corded arms, covered in a rippling expanse of hard, sleek muscle from years of archery and sparring and training, washboard abdomen, tapering down to a narrowed waist. Really, with his flirtatious attitude, she’d seen him leave women almost drooling in his wake, so she was certainly not alone in finding him nice to look at. He also happened to have a pretty face, when it wasn’t too bruised (which was often, because he was good at getting himself hurt, which was accompanied by a completely different range of emotions in her to be contemplated another time, thank you very much). 

She set about methodically cleaning her throwing knives, suddenly feeling anger and spite boiling inside her; why the fuck could she not push this aside? It’s not like she was a cold, emotionless, feelingless rock like she was fine with everyone believing. (Ironically, she felt like Clint was the only one who understood that.) She’d had physical attractions to men before, and she could ignore the, push them down, so why was this different. She was thinking fast, angry and frustrated, hands moving quickly with cleaning rag and blades, until she slipped in her haphazard movements and jabbed her finger with a razor sharp blade. 

Swearing violently in Russian under her breath, she threw her knives aside, sucking her injured finger into her mouth. She abandoned them there at the table, storming off to one of the bedrooms to retire for the night. She slept restlessly though, the same thoughts and questions turning over and over in her head.

In the other room, Clint had similarly gone to bed a short while later, intent on catching up on his sleep deficit. However, he found himself riddled with guilt, and at the same time pissed of at himself, because he was NOT going to hurt Natasha. Enough people had done that in her life. He didn’t need to add to it.


	14. Here's to Undercover and Under the Radar

There was certainly an art to looking good, but looking good on a budget. Even though their budget had been greatly expanded by the reserves of cash bundled away in the safe-house, they were about to crash a party of millionaires: people with custom made suits they easily dropped thousands on, hand tailored dresses woven with golden filaments and encrusted with precious gemstones, baby seal leather Italian shoes, and jewelry alone with a net worth great enough to feed a starving nation for months. Now, typically SHIELD would cover all of these expenses, and throw in a limo, as well as undercover agents in position as their personal security (which wasn’t uncommon at these gatherings), however seeing as they were working with what they had, they had to resort to more morally questionable means. (Mostly it entailed a lot of credit card fraud, but they knew enough about that to avoid the vast majority of the risk of being caught, and SHIELD would sort it all out later when everything was back to normal.) 

Afterwards, they looked good. Like they were trying, but hardly at all. With Natasha at his arm, black revealing dress, flashing jewels and all, and his own suit, all suave black and crisp edges, they would fit right into the crowd. 

Then there was the matter of surveilling the building. They had spent hours circling, noting entrances and exits, as well as security equipment and personnel rotations.

After a day full of retail and recon, they returned to their base of operations- their safe-house, which was turning out to be not just as secure as they required, but a significant help by supplying them with basic necessities and by replacing much needed equipment.

Natasha had hacked into the city’s municipal department and obtained the blueprints of the hotel, and they had poured over every detail, mapping out escape routes and contingency after contingency, examining likely locations for their mark to retreat to in order to conduct his business, and locating the main server hub, where they would have to unleash Stark’s computer virus so it could spread itself and destroy any remnant of the launch codes on any piece of computer hardware or device connected directly, or by the WiFi. (Well, it wouldn’t just eradicate the codes. It would actually gut everything, probably for a city block radius. Apparently Stark’s code was self replicating, creating back doors blah blah blah and a bunch of other technical computer jargon Clint didn’t understand, but the important thing was that it did the job.)

Destroying the launch codes was their main objective, so the server room was their first target. The frustrating Russian arms dealer and trafficker was secondary, and they needed to get him alive, if at all possible, because he had information that SHIELD could put to a lot of good. 

But all Clint really wanted to do was return home to the comfort of his apartment back in New York, with Lucky, and Kate, and Natasha, and pizza and coffee, and even the occasional run-in with the tracksuit mafia guys. Yep, all that was waiting for him, but here he was, on the other side of the world. If they could just survive tonight, and if everything could just go according to plan… Well, people had a saying about ‘best-laid plans’, didn’t they? Clint couldn’t remember exactly what it was. 

But there they were, setting out on what Clint really, really hoped was the final leg of an altogether too complicated, too painful, and too taxing assignment.

Perhaps two hundred guests were ushered into the glamorous stonework hotel with a red carpet introduction. The ballroom within the cathedral of a building in which the event was held was extravagant. There was no other word to describe it, or maybe there was, but Clint couldn’t think of any: a dozen massive crystal chandeliers suspended high above the ballroom floor, golden plated intricate engravings and gleaming white marble domed ceiling and pillars, delicate, brilliantly colored silk wall hangings and tapestries, a hand carved, polished wood, curving, ascending staircase to a second level at the far side, and high, shimmering stained glass windows. The men and women inside matched the glamour and excessive nature of the hall in their apparel and flashing jewelry. Diamonds glittered at every throat, ear, wrist, and finger.

Champagne was free-flowing as black clad waiters stalked silently about the room, avoiding eye contact and being otherwise invisible. Clint felt out of place, not that he looked it, meandering around the outskirts of the clusters of the one-percenters with Natasha clinging to his side, mimicking the behavior of all the other beautiful young women, the only difference being that Clint was significantly closer to her in age than the other, much older gentlemen. (Clint was among the youngest male guests in the room, which only contributed to his feeling out of place, whereas nearly all of the young, gorgeous women in the room were very young- though he didn’t care if they were models or celebrities or whatever, he thought Natasha outshined them all.) He didn't let his discomfort show however, as he had plenty of experience in completely owning the space of whatever room he walked into and looking more like he belonged there than most of those that actually did. The both of them matched the body language, posturing, movement and speech patterns of those they were intending to blend in with, and they gained access to the gala without a hitch. 

They quickly located Vakhrov, as he was making quite a scene with the guest of honor in the center of the crowd. The beautiful young women were gathered around them and the obscenely expensive champagne was in abundance, both of which helped to distract guests and patrons from the numerous armed guards in matching ‘uniforms’ of sleek black suits and ties positioned at the doors of the hall, throughout the hallways outside it, and around the outside perimeter of the building. Security was tight, but relatively hastily put together and that meant it had flaws; as seen by the fact he and Natasha were currently inside masquerading as the rather wealthy business partner to a Western European steel conglomerate tycoon and his gorgeous fiance. 

Preparing proficient security for a high profile event such as this, done correctly, could easily take weeks, however, their mark obviously didn't have that kind of time, as he was trying to unload high value, high target merchandise as quickly as possible.

Assimilating into a new identity is the easy part; creating the identity is where you run into issues. It takes time, a lot of it, and resources, neither of which they had. A team at SHIELD could create the proper identifications, paper trails, and histories to effectively create new people, new covers, but obviously they lacked SHIELD support, That left them with option number two: rather than creating new people, they would become existing ones, or at least become a person with enough background that people believe them to be legitimate. And so, they created the ID’s and forged the necessary invitation to take up the mantels of two people of enough renown, yet that were low key enough to avoid attention, that they were sure would not show up, and that no one there would have met before.

Clint had filled the role of Nathaniel Sinclair; one of an obscenely rich, but very private family from London, meaning no one attending had a face to put to the name. Natasha was Lillian Ainsworth, soon to be be Lillian Sinclair, but also equally if not more mysterious, from a lesser background. Putting together their identities was simple enough, but most importantly they looked and were able to act the part, so access wasn't an issue; they just glided through the gleaming threshold, slick-and-polished armed guards holding the doors wide open for them.

The small, formal chamber orchestra composed of violins, cellos, flutes, and an assortment of other strings and woodwind instruments struck up a classical slow waltz, prompting a large majority of couples to flock to the dance floor. Clint and Natasha saw Vakhrov sweep one of the young women gathered around him off to take part in the large cluster of slowly spinning and swooping couples.

"Might I have this dance?" Clint asked, with a very slight, lovely flavoring of a British accent (Natasha approved) to fit their covers, though he said it hardly loud enough for anyone else to hear, offering his arm out to her graciously. She accepted, looping her arm in his as he led them both to the gleaming marble dance floor.

On the outskirts of the waltzing couples, Clint looped an arm around her waist and quickly pulled her along with him to mingle in the crowd and take their place on the floor. Natasha inhaled sharply at the sudden pull and at finding her and her partner suddenly so close together, locked in the dance. Backs straight, posture pointed, they stepped through the dance (yes they could both waltz, along with a few other dances, and quite well too, for exactly this sort of situation), executing elegant yet refined dips, spins, curt bows and small sharp steps in time with the music. This was fine, Natasha mused. There was structure, rules, to a waltz, and the movement allowed for at least one of them to keep an eye on their mark at all times.

Then the music shifted to a slower and more intimate mood, causing the waltzing to come to an end with final bows, and the ballroom slow dance to begin. Clint pulled her in close, holding her delicately yet firmly at the waist with his right hand and the other joined with her own, Natasha’s left hand resting at his shoulder. In her heels, she was just inches shorter than him, allowing her head to tuck into his shoulder perfectly as they moved, his shoulders and chest leaning over her slightly, intimately, drawing her in. His head was lowered slightly, his breath tickling her ear and neck. For that one moment, everything else was gone from Natasha's mind. He was her safe place: solid, warm, and tangible. It didn’t matter where they were, what they were in the middle of; the world suddenly became very small.

At the same time, Clint was struggling to avoid being drawn into that moment. He had pulled them to the dance floor to maintain unobtrusive surveillance of Vakhrov, to blend in, however, all thoughts of the mission drifted away with Natasha in his arms, barely an inch between them, so close he could practically feel the thrum of her pulse and the rise and fall of her chest with every breath.

"Nat, I..." her partner began, barely a whisper, but paused for a moment and glanced away, "I don't know-" he cut himself off when he noticed Natasha turning her head sharply, almost like a double take, to see clearer over his shoulder, doubt flashing across her face before it was gone, masked. 

That moment between them was shattered, the comfortable intimacy falling away to be replaced by the rush of cold reality when, suddenly coming back to her senses, Natasha noticed the place their mark had been moments before was now distinctly void of one Russian arms dealer. Fuck. It had only been maybe five minutes tops since she last had eyes on him, but now he had gone, and they had no idea to where.

Natasha brought this to Clint’s attention with a quick prod, a pointed chin thrust, and a look. He clenched his jaw, frustrated, and glanced around the room as they kept turning with the music.

She was in this process of mentally berating herself when she managed to catch sight of Vakhrov out of the corner of her eye on the edge of the crowd, speaking with a guest. She pulled back slightly and turned them so Natasha could easily and inconspicuously keep tabs on him. With eyes darting between her mark and her partner, she was mentally cursing herself for allowing herself to become distracted.

Clint noticed the shallow, sharp inhale of breath and the glances from his partner, and flicked his eyes over to where she was looking to see Vakhrov, on the move, retreating along with a handful of guards trailing him on either side, and a portly, short, older man, one of the party-goers, too obscured behind the guards for either Clint or Natasha to see his face. They were leaving the ballroom at the far end, ascending the staircase to the second level, headed further into the building.

"I'll tail closely, take the far south exit and try to see if I can get myself invited along," she whispered in his ear, eyes following their mark. “You stick with the original plan.”

They had planned for Vakhrov to stick around in the ballroom for a few hours, giving them time to work their way discretely down to the server room to meet their first priority, the codes, before returning to deal with extracting their mark. They had not planned for him to leave almost immediately, which was what was happening.This meant a split second decision. They could follow through with their plans, however that meant Vakhrov, even though he was their secondary objective, could and would likely slip away again once they lost him. Or, as Natasha suggested, they split up. 

What she had said, ‘seeing if she would be invited along’, meant she would follow, try to get close and seduce him given the opportunity, and get him alone, a skill she was very adept at. This left Clint to take the servers on himself. Clint nodded, knowing it was the best course of action to end this quickly and efficiently, even though he had a sinking feeling at the thought of separating and leaving her to her own devices, and an even worse feeling about Natasha getting close, getting intimate, with this scumbag, without anyone to watch her back. 

She was plenty capable of taking care of herself. He knew that. They had pulled this type of op many times before. They were both still alive. And they had only seconds to agree on a plan of attack. All of this contributed to his agreeing with her plan, even though it felt so wrong. 

Clint guided them both both out of the loose crowd of moving bodies and l to an empty table at the back of the room, near a door on the bottom level, below the doors through which their mark exited but a minute prior at the top of the staircase. One of the many guards had taken up a post outside the door, posing a problem. 

Snagging a glass of champagne from a passing server, Clint slid behind Natasha as she stood facing the table, riffling through her clutch purse and he placed the delicate crystal flute in front of her. Leaning in close, he whispered low enough so only she could hear as he pulled away. "Go, be careful. I'll create a diversion and manage the guard. I’ll follow in a few minutes."

She turned to face him, straightening his pocket square, and reached up to brush a thick curl of hair away from her face, smoothly depositing an ear communication piece in her ear in one fluid motion. (Clint’s aids- not the BTE’s, Stark’s new inside the ear ones- had a built in com device to match her own, so they wouldn’t be completely separated.) With a smile, she picked up the champagne glass, took a sip, and stalked away, hips swaying in her tell-tail confident stride. Clint watched her meander in the general direction of the door. Picking up another glass of the way-too-expensive alcohol, he waited for the familiar click in his ear to tell him the two comms were online and operational.

"You picking up?" he heard Natasha's voice in his ear.

"All good," he replied, watching from the corner of his eye as his partner took up position at another empty table, making a show of touching up her lipstick for a moment.

Clint moved in her opposite direction, looking around for an opening or opportunity to cause temporary chaos. One particular couple caught his attention; a man in his mid-forties and a young woman half his age hanging on his arm. Both were drinking and talking rather loudly and obnoxiously with a circle of other party-goers. 

Nearing them, Clint waited for a server bearing a precariously balanced, freshly restocked tray of champagne to pass next to them before nudging, a little forcefully, the back of the poor guy's knee, causing him to stumble, nearly falling, and resulting in the tray of champagne crashing into the young woman, also splashing various others around. As he kind of expected, she began shrieking and floundering about into the other shocked guests. The server, of course, looked mortified and stricken with terror. Clint had definitely cost him his job, possibly more, and while that was unfortunate, it was necessary. When this happened, Clint had already moved away, and no suspicious glances fell on him at all. All of the guards in the vicinity turned toward the disruption, some moving closer, including the man at their targeted door, giving Natasha the needed opening.

As he fit back in with the gathering, gawking crowd around his champagne soaked, yelling victims, Clint turned his head just in time to see his partner disappearing behind the closing doors.


	15. Here's to Best Laid Plans

Natasha closed the door behind her and leaned back against it momentarily as she took in her surroundings. She was at a small service entrance, really just a backdoor used by hotel personnel, with a narrow hallway going off to her right parallel to the ballroom and a staircase ascending up the floors of the building to her left. A handful of carts bearing stacked trays of clean silverware and fancifully folded cloth napkins lined the way down the hallway, which looked like it led to a kitchen and various service rooms, so the stairs looked like a more likely option.

Natasha adjusted her ear piece for a final time and set off up the crimson carpeted staircase. (Apparently all parts of the hotel, even the ‘behind the scenes’ bits that their rich patrons would never see, were carpeted in that same, deep shade of red that screamed wealth and luxury.)

As she rounded the banister to alight on the second floor, a sharply dressed man with a neat crew cut and the obvious bulge of a handgun inside his jacket turned the corner and saw her. It didn't take her experienced eye to see he was on guard duty, making rounds on that floor. 

She would never have run into trouble (if this one guy could be considered trouble) this soon on a typical assignment. Typically, when they had time, resources, and a team at their disposal, they would spend a week vetting security, making small scale infiltrations to determine their rounds and procedures, and create a tactical plan for a deep cover incursion with various moving parts, each agent having a role in the complicated assignment, with an end product of a flawlessly executed extraction without anyone noticing they were ever there until far too late, when they and their mark were long gone. This situation, however, was not typical. And with hardly a day’s notice to prepare, a two man (well, one man, one woman) team, no backup, no extraction team, and limited resources (like, a handy dandy satellite that would be great for intercepting communications, or disrupting them, between unfriendlies), they were basically winging it. For any other team, Natasha would say a positive outcome had a lottery’s chances at best, and that it was a suicide mission at worst. They, however, were not ‘any other team’, so it was more fifty-fifty. It was still a risk they had to take.

She didn’t have to size him up much for her gut to tell her that this guard, for all his strut and imposing appearance, was not someone she should be concerned about. As if to illustrate her point, he went for the hand radio at his belt automatically to signal the security breach, but made the potentially fatal (for him) mistake of hesitating and deciding to go investigate the situation first. After all, she was a petite woman in a fancy, revealing dress worth more than his entire wardrobe that was smiling drunkenly at him as she wobbled up the stairs rather precariously in killer black and red stilettos (she was going to make every effort to keep those shoes) with a glass of champagne. Probably a confused guest from the party downstairs, right?

"Ma'am, you can't be up here," he said in what she assumed was his serious voice as he closed the distance between them. Yet another mistake, she noted, and almost felt sorry for what she was about to do to him. Almost.

"Oh, no, I am meeting someone," she giggled, yes, giggled, her native Russian accent heavy, and she stumbled a little to the last stair. "He is Senator, but it is secret! Our secret. You no tell, anybody. Promise, you promise." She continued to slur slightly, smiling flirtatiously as she played out her best drunken Russian call-girl, an act she was sadly experienced at portraying. Oh well, came with the job.

"I’m sorry ma’am, the party is back downstairs. I’ll escort you-" When he was within range, she stumbled and tripped on the carpeting in the last stair and fell forward into the arms of her unsuspecting victim. "Oh thank you, such a gentleman." She murmured as he fumbled to get her on her feet again. 

With both of his hands occupied, and off balance, unable to reach for a weapon or radio in time, Natasha struck out with speed and precision like that of a coiled snake, which obviously this poor fella was not expecting from the little pretty lady in a drunken mess in his arms. She grabbed his shoulder with the hand not still daintily holding her champagne glass and jerked him forward while simultaneously kneeing him in the gut forcefully. She sidestepped and wasted no time in kicking out the back of his knee, taking him to the ground kneeling, before slamming his head forward viciously into the banister. He came away dazed and bloodied, but remarkably still conscious. Hmm, think skull. She frowned a little, before resigning herself to setting her champagne flute down and going to the effort of putting the man in a choke hold, though carefully avoiding getting blood on her nice dress. He went out like a light, and she let him slump to the floor. 

She hauled him by a leg into a closet on the side, filled with more carts and trays. She took advantage in the long slit up the side of her floor length dress to retrieve a blade strapped to her thigh quickly, using it and a forceful kick to break off the inside door handle after hiding her unconscious victim away in a corner. 

"Ah, the Russian call-girl again. Or, was that the Serbian mistress? I have a hard time telling the difference; they're so similar." Clint's voice buzzed in her ear; a familiar and comforting sound, even though his commentary could be slightly annoying.

She closed the door behind her, leaving the red haired femme-fatale to recollect her drink and continue down the hall he had been canvassing. "That was the call-girl. If you recall from Bogotá, the mistress favors red wine to champagne and a piano wire garrote."

"Oh right, that's the one," he replied cheerfully.

"I have to say, I am a little disappointed that you didn't recognize it. My acting is flawless."

"You deserve an Oscar...though I’m not sure what you would do with the statue of a golden little man. Your taste usually favors the more functionable, except, of course, when it comes to shoes." She could hear his smile in his words. “You have no idea the amount of respect I have for anyone who can run in those- honestly some look more like torture devices than fashionable footwear.”

“A girl can never have too many heels. But you know I’ve killed men with stilettos before. I’d call that plenty functionable.” She continued her way down the hall for a bit, looking for something that may give her a clue as to her target’s location. If she found nothing, she would circle back and check the next floor.

"You never cease to amaze, and frighten me.” A loud burst of obnoxious laughter and indistinguishable chatter from the crowd in the ballroom carried through Clint’s comm. “But by the way, my ETA is a little delayed,” he resumed. “I'll be making for the basement in ten minutes. A few unforeseen difficulties down here, but nothing I can't handle. What's your 20?"

"Out the side door, took the staircase to the left. It’ll take you to the basement, but I’m up to the second level and following down the hallway. One guard so far. Amateur, but I suspect they may become a little more problematic the farther in I get."

"Copy." And with that their brief conversation came to an end and the mission was at the forefront of Natasha's mind once again. She missed him automatically, and wished more than anything he was at her side, watching her back, even if she didn’t really need him to complete her part of the mission.

She ran into a pair of double doors in the hallway. This was what she was looking for. They were emergency fire doors, the kind in public buildings (hotels, offices, schools, etc.) that only ever close when the fire alarm goes off, and that are definitely never locked, which is contrary to fire code, but there they were, closed and locked. However, only by a deadbolt requiring a key, which did not present much of a problem. Pulling out her lock pick set that she also had strapped to her thigh (knives and lock picks, only the necessities), she made quick work of it and continued down the hallway. 

She was more cautious now, clinging to the walls, darting between carts for cover, even though it was poor cover at that. No matter her expertise and skills, her little cons wouldn't work from that point on, as the guards would know she passed the locked doors, and Natasha suspected they would be more experienced and capable the closer she got to Vakhrov.

Glancing through doorways as she went, she was surprised, and becoming increasingly nervous at the lack of guards.

White noise hummed in her ear. "Clint, I'm not seeing much up here, and not really any guards either, which I don't have a good feeling about. Clint? Copy?" She readjusted her earpiece, but she was only getting static. She swore and took the piece out and tucked it into her handbag as the static got louder and more distracting. There must be a signal jammer, meaning she was getting close, but to what, she wasn’t sure.

She caught a fleeting shadow of movement coming through the doorway at the far end of the hall and ducked through a doorway into a small office conference room the looked like it was set up for surveillance. Monitors lined the wall on one side and multiple computers were set up at the table in the middle of the room. It was empty of guards though, which was again strange, but unfortunately not for long.

Three men, all in the same drab uniform that identified them as the hired brutes to fill in security staff, walked into the room a mere minute behind her.  
Of course they just had to pick the room she chose to hide in. 

They were certainly surprised to see her standing there against the far wall, but they didn't take long to act on it. They rushed her, but the relatively confined space of the room due to the long table taking up the majority of the center meant that they were only coming at her from one direction, rather than surround her, which Natasha knew they would do if they were actually smart to any degree or had received proper training on multi person hand-to-hand combat. Yet another indicator that most of these ‘guards’ were just hired thugs.

Had they surrounded her, she would have had to hold them back three at once, and it would have gone much better for them.

In the time it took them to recognize the threat, she had already slipped out of her heels and set her glass aside; she wouldn't be needing it any more. As the first man launched himself at her, arms out to grab and immobilize her, she ducked under his sweeping gesture and came up with speed from beneath him, making solid contact between her fist and the soft tissue and cartilage of his throat. The gasping and shocked look on his face as his windpipe folded and temporarily collapsed was priceless. 

He fell to his knees clasping his throat, making way for the two other men, who now saw she meant business. 

Natasha jumped elegantly from the floor to the back of the partially suffocating man she had incapacitated, launching herself at the shoulders of the next closest guard. Using the crook of her elbow around his neck and a bare foot planted into his abdomen,, she swung her light frame around him and brought him to his knees as she wrenched his head around viciously, snapping it efficiently and effectively. Gruesome, but in this case, necessary.

The third guard pointed a gun at her face, but he made the mistake of being way too close. She flipped back around the shoulders of the second guard and kicked the gun from his hand. Natasha rolled backwards quickly upon hitting the ground and jumped up by the first man, who was beginning to recover, planting a knee squarely into the side of his head for good measure and causing him to drop like a rock. The last man standing, now empty handed, rushed for the gun on the floor between them. Natasha let him get to it first, and while he, on his hand and knees, scrambled to pick it up, she shoulder-rolled forward. With the gun in hand he went to aim it at her, now on one knee and rising to his feet, but Natasha leaped forward one leg latched around his shoulder, immobilizing one arm, the other bent at her knee and around his neck, muscles tight, unmoving, despite his attempts to dislodge her as she clamped down on his windpipe, cutting off oxygen. Securely perched on his shoulders with only her legs, she grabbed his remaining, gun wielding, flailing arm with both of hers and yanked it upward, holding it firmly above his head at what must have been a terribly uncomfortable angle. At this point, only moderate volume pained grunts and the thumping sounds of crashing and colliding bodies may have alerted others to her presence, and a gunshot was not something she wanted to add to that list.

Struggling, he threw himself, and her, into a wall, jarring her, but she wasn’t moving. Slowly, his resistance grew weaker, his movements stumbling, and he dropped to his knees before collapsing to the ground completely, unconscious, with a final gasp. She rolled up to her feet.

She went to collect her stilettos, turning in time to see the second guard who she had knocked out had reawakened during her struggle with the other, because while still on the ground and unmoving, he had his radio out and had just enough time to sound the warning, only a few alarmed syllables of broken Russian, before Natasha managed to land a severe blow to the back of his neck, likely silencing him a bit more permanently.

She cursed the god she didn't believe in for her luck as she sprinted from the room, abandoning her shoes and running for the doorway. That’s what she got for trying a little mercy and rendering people unconscious rather than dead… well, she tried Clint’s preferred method- it didn’t work out. Putting the earpiece back in, she tried in vain to warn her partner that they were compromised, but it was cutting in and out with static still. 

"Clint! Abort the mission. We're blown. Do you hear me? Get out!"

"Nat---wha---- I can't ge-- they’re all- mov--- where a- " and with that, the comm cut out completely and went dead. His voice had sounded alarmed, slightly panicked, and she could only assume he was compromised also and dealing with his own, similar problems. Her heart was racing- from the exertion of that last scuffle, from the rising panic toward their situation, from not knowing where her partner was or if he was alright or needed her help. Damnit. Fuck all. This was not how missions went- not how they were supposed to go- not how they did them. Everything about this assignment made her feel like the cards had been stacked against them, like they were the marionettes, and someone was pulling their strings in all the wrong ways. 

Fuck it, fuck it-- oh, fuck.

She spun around the corner in the direction she came from to find a wall of suits and guns pointed at her. Almost a comic amount, actually. Spinning on a dime, she retreated only to find her path blocked yet again. How in all hell had this happened? In no way would they have had time to gather and move in on her position like this. She was blocked in with no escape route, no defense, and no guarantee of backup. Well, shit. She played the only angle she had, and surrendered, arms up, hoping they weren't cold enough to use an unarmed, unmoving and surrendering woman for target practice.

And damnit, she lost her stilettos.

A man, the only one not pointing a weapon at her, dressed in a suit and formal wear though very different, more tasteful, than the guards, stepped forward a pace, out from behind his row of soldiers. "No, sadly I do not think Agent, ah, what's his name? Oh, yes. I do not think Agent Barton can hear you. SHIELD agents and their communication devices… all the same, You are no different.” Alarm bells in her head were going off. “But he and the others will be joining us shortly, Agent Romanoff, do not worry." Vakhrov smiled repulsively, pityingly, as though watching an ant crawl across the floor and debating whether or not to stomp on it. It made no sense that he was here in front of her. The timing, the location, the sudden presence of him and the dozens of guards around her- yeah, it sucked, but tactically she had no idea how it happened,

His eyes raked up and down her body, predatory, not even trying to hide it. She felt the cling of her dress to her body, and for the first time that night, wished she had worn something more reasonable- she hadn’t wished it when she was crushing people’s windpipes between her thighs, or when she was sprinting in a floor length dress, all that she could deal with, but this creep eyeing her up like that- it was repulsive, made her skin feel like it was crawling, and as rage flared up in her belly, she wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes out. Natasha had had plenty of bottom-feeding creeps eye her similarly, and she had long ago perfected her ability to distinguish the pervs from the predators, and this guy was definitely the later- all smooth charm, well dressed, heavy cologne, the time of confidence in his movements and tone that screamed rich-boy-that-no-one-tells-no-to. Honestly, if he were actually pointing a gun at her, instead of hiding behind a wall of others to do it for him, it would have pissed her off less. 

“Eyes up here, болван,” (1) she spat, “before I carve out your eyes and feed them to you, чертов кусок дерьма.” (2) He looked on disapprovingly at her choice of insults.

“How do the Americans say, ah, feisty one, yes? I like the ones with fire. But we will continue this conversation later, okay душка?” (3) He motioned at one of the men behind Natasha. She caught a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye, but she wasn’t going to turn- not with all of these guns in the hands of trigger-happy thugs pointed at her. She braced herself though, and there was a painful jolt before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough translations:  
> 1- jackass  
> 2- fucking piece of shit  
> 3- darling


	16. Here's to Absolutely Necessary Arson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it isn't clear to you, this chapter and the last take place at the same time, just from different perspectives.

He watched the door close behind Natasha. 

Clint stayed near and mingled in the growing crowd around the poor waiter that was fumbling to collect himself, as it was the best way to avoid detection. He also took the opportunity to watch the guards and clock their movements and reaction time. The young woman soaked with the expensive alcohol was near tears as she proceeded to yell and scream at Clint's victim and cause quite the developing scene. It was actually pretty funny, but laughing would not be appropriate- time and place and all. After roughly 90 seconds of mounting chaos, two suited men parted the crowd and led the woman and the waiter away. A second waitress materialized to finish cleaning up the mess, and the other guests that were splashed with champagne retreated to the restrooms to clean themselves up. All was quickly restored to order and the normal proceedings carried on as the chamber orchestra launched itself into an upbeat tune.

Clint again made his way slowly through the crowd and around the dance floor, first in the direction his partner had last taken, then circling the huge room, suddenly feeling the need to disappear. He felt an odd change in the atmosphere, something that you only pick up with years of experience in similar situations. It was subtle, but Clint began to feel uneasy. 

He was pulled from his thoughts when he heard his partner, not speaking to him, but, well, the comms pick up everything. She was obviously interacting with someone, probably one of the suits, who had gotten in her way. He listened intently, not daring to say anything for the risk of distracting her, but concern growing as he was forced to just listen to her get herself out of trouble. There was a conflict, which she seemed to come out of quickly and no worse for wear, however he wanted to be sure she was alright. When he was confident that her struggle was over, he spoke up.

"Ah, the Russian call-girl again. Or, was that the Serbian mistress? I have a hard time telling the difference; they're so similar." His tone was bright, even joking, easily masking the gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach.

"That was the call-girl. If you recall from Bogotá, the mistress favors red wine to champagne and a piano wire garrote."

"Oh right, that's the one," he replied easily, relieved she sounded fine, like herself, not hurt. 

"I have to say, I am a little disappointed that you didn't recognize it. My acting is flawless."

"You deserve an Oscar...though I’m not sure what you would do with the statue of a golden little man. Your taste usually favors the more functionable, except, of course, when it comes to shoes." He smiled, carefully speaking softly, tone low, and turning his head down so no one would see or hear him talking to himself, apparently.. “You have no idea the amount of respect I have for anyone who can run in those- honestly some look more like torture devices than fashionable footwear.”

“A girl can never have too many heels. But you know I’ve killed men with stilettos before. I’d call that plenty functionable.” 

Yes, she was definitely fine. He mentally berated himself for doubting her ability to take care of herself. "You never cease to amaze, and frighten me.” 

Clint passed a particularly loud and obnoxious group of men and women who were more than just a little tipsy. He moved on, the noise making it challenging to hear her.

The uneasy feeling returned. He shut out the chatter and music nearly completely, allowing slight paranoia learned from experience and hyper-vigilance to kick in. Making a slow 360 degree turn, he absorbed every minute detail of his surroundings, piecing together physical locations and movements of guards and possible threats as well as small gestures, changes in body language, and micro expressions into a spacial map in his head. 

He was unable to rationalize the gut feeling he was picking up on, until it hit his square in the face.

Every guard lining the perimeter had straightened and stood just a little taller. They had likely picked up orders through earpiece intercoms those of them in the ballroom had. One or two without such intercoms were moving seemingly without direction down the sides of the ballroom, fidgeting with handheld radios. Half of the guards had hands that wandered just a little nearer to the concealed handguns inside their jackets without them even realizing it. As he watched, more bodyguards entered the room, slowly, one at a time, and from all different doors, so it was almost unnoticeable. There were now two guards at some doors, rather than just one, and others were still coming. 

Not good. He didn’t know what was going on, or why, but he needed to figure it out.

“But by the way, my ETA is a little delayed,” he resumed, eyes still roving the perimeter intently. With the guards on high alert now, he may have trouble getting out of there as quickly as intended. “I'll be making for the basement in ten minutes. A few unforeseen difficulties down here, but nothing I can't handle.” He didn’t want to worry or distract her when she was certainly in more danger than he was. “What's your 20?"

"Out the side door, took the staircase to the left. It’ll take you to the basement, but I’m up to the second level and following down the hallway. One guard so far. Amateur, but I suspect they may become a little more problematic the farther in I get."

"Copy." He returned his attention to the guards at the perimeter, more specifically their movements, and in one very disturbing instant realized he made a rather big and possibly unforgiving mistake in allowing himself to be distracted by unnecessary concern for his partner’s well-being.

More suits had come in to take up stations, and they had brought an electronic tablet they were discreetly passing around to each other to look at. What disturbed Clint the most was that each and every one of them was now scanning the crowd of guests intently, and not in the manner suggesting they are simply ready for trouble or another disturbance, but in a way that spoke loudly that they were searching for one or more particular faces. Based on all of this information, he could only assume the tablet being passed between guards showed a picture of whoever they were searching for. He would bet all he was worth that his face was at least one of the two they were looking for.

Very not good. Fucking terrible, actually.

Clint retreated to the center of the milling mass of people, carefully hiding himself among moving bodies. Again taking in the layout, it didn't get much better. There were exactly four exits, and each was carefully monitored. 

There was the main entrance into the equally glamorous hotel lobby, but that was a direct line out onto the street, and while it may serve well enough as an escape route for himself if things took a turn for the worse, it would mean leaving Natasha to fend for herself. That was not happening. There was also the side service entrance Natasha had taken, which led only further into the building, either up to more floors or down to the basement. There was a main staff entrance that was used by the coming and going waiters and servers that most likely led to the kitchens, which looked like a viable option, but still would mean he would be way too visible. Finally, there was an emergency fire exit in the back corner of the hall which would sound the alarm if opened. He wasn't sure where it would lead, but sometimes a quick but messy getaway that caused something of a panic was useful, especially when a hundred other people scramble to get out of the building after you (the fiasco at the train station was evidence of that). None of these options were good, and more guards were arriving by the minute. 

The general realization that her was having was that he was in a fishbowl with no backup, no information, and he was being hunted. He was sure of it, though he had no idea how Vakhrov knew they were there, much less how he would have their faces or names to give to his men in order to find them. 

Oh, wait, there was the whole issue of a mole being in SHIELD- well, fuck it, but it still didn’t explain how he knew they were here. 

Okay, assessment of the situation complete. Decision making time.

He could warn Natasha, both of them about the mission, get out of there. Except, that may prove challenging for her, given how deep she was in already, and he was not about to leave the building when he knew she was still inside. That would also mean failure to complete their assignment, which would mean viable nuclear launch codes being put into any number of wrong hands. No. They couldn’t do that- they were goddamn Avengers after all. If they didn’t finish this, no one would be able to in time.

That left the only other option- warn his partner that they were quite possibly compromised, but carry on, and complete the mission. The odds were not really in their favor, but they had been in worse situations and succeeded.

He tried to get his partner’s attention through the comms. “Nat, you copy? Problem. Guard rotations have- Nat?” He wasn’t hearing the usual feedback, and she wasn’t responding. That really was not good. He tried again, warning her despite her lack of response in case the error was one sided and she could still hear him, or she was just in a situation where she couldn’t respond. Still, he didn’t think he got through to her, which was slightly terrifying. He pushed it down though; there was nothing he could do about that right now. 

She would have to take care of herself. He hated himself for even thinking that phrase.

The problem remained, that he needed to get out of the hall unnoticed and make his way down to the server room. Natasha was supposed to scout out ahead to hopefully isolate Vakhrov and incapacitate him and the buyer, he was supposed to take down the server and neutralize the codes with Stark’s virus, then they were supposed to meet near the Southernmost wing exit, however the exact nature and timing of their escape was going to depend a good deal on communication via the comms- which now may be a problem. Nothing about that needed to change- except it may not go as smoothly or silently as planned, but the gist of it stayed the same- he hoped.

So, he had few options. He could go for the fire exit and sound the alarm, and use the confusion that followed to slip away into the building, however, there were guards posted at that door, so he would definitely be seen and pursued. Also, the guards would quickly send orders to shut off the alarm, as there was obviously no fire, and could likely calm the crowd quickly enough. All in all, not the best scenario. Option two: he could create another scene, but he'd rather not. That working out twice was unlikely. Any competent guard might begin to suspect something was going on, as accidents don't keep happening at events such as this. Also, it was unlikely the guards would leave the doors completely unattended, seeing as there were more of them and they were on high alert.

So naturally, the only rational proceeding would be to cause a legitimate panic with an actual fire. It seemed like the simplest course of action, and while a frenzied mob of people simultaneously rushing for the exits didn't sound particularly appealing, or safe for that matter, it would make it near impossible for the guards to contain the crowd to find the person or persons they were looking for- and at this point he was assuming it was Natasha and himself. 

Right. It’s not like he enjoyed lighting shit on fire or was planning on doing it today- arson was not to be taken lightly- but he did come prepared, like any proper boyscout would.

Except he’s not and has never been a boy scout. Natasha would say that, if she were there...

He tried the comms one more time. "Nat, we might be compromised. More guards are piling in by the minute, and they're on the hunt for someone...or multiple someones," he added begrudgingly. "What's your status?" He waited for a response impatiently, worry growing like a cancer in his chest, tightening each second of radio silence that passed. "C’mon Nat, give me something here. Please."

He swore under his breath as he continued moving, making his way in the direction of the kitchen service door. "If you can hear me, and I'm really, really hoping you can, brace yourself. I'm about to start something down here. It's not gonna be good. It’s probably really stupid. It’s probably something you would tell me not to do. But I'm running out of options."

He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "Damn it, Nat." Still nothing. At this point, he was sure something had gone very wrong.

Turning abruptly on the spot, Clint intentionally bumped into a German fellow passing behind him, jerking his arm and spilling some of his drink on himself in the process.

"Oh, god, sorry about that. I didn't get any on you, did I?" He asked with mock sincerity. At first surprised, the German just looked confused and said a few phrases in German. "No English, okay, good, great," Clint said while walking away abruptly. He waved down a waiter with an empty tray headed back towards the kitchens for more glasses.

"Yeah, do you have a towel or something? I spilled some of it here-see-" The waiter didn't even seem to be paying attention to what he was saying, or simply didn't care, but quickly offered up a white towel before turning and continuing his way to the kitchens.

Turning also, Clint retrieved a small device from where it was tucked into the lining of his jacket. It wasn't too dissimilar from one of his custom arrowheads- ya know, the incendiary consume-target-in-huge-fiery-explosion type. This was much less drastic in size and intensity, however, as it set the blaze, but without the force of the explosion. It was set on a time delay, and basically was just going to spark and ignite a decent sized fire, though not big enough that anyone should get hurt, just... startled. Also, the ignition fuel it worked off wouldn’t allow it to be put out very easily at all. Still walking, Clint wrapped the fire-starter in the cloth and while passing a food trolley headed back into the kitchen, tossed it underneath onto a stack of neatly folded cloth napkins and towels. 

Oops, who put that there? Not him. 

The final field report would definitely not say he intentionally started a fire in Moscow in a building full of civilians- mind you, many involved in legally and morally dubious business ventures, but still some of the more wealthy and more politically influential people in the world. That was exactly the kind of international incident Fury tended to complain about. Of course, that assumed he would survive to tell the tale. Dead men didn't have to write up reports, now did they?

Walking away towards a strategic position near the door Natasha took, he counted down the two minutes and waited for the impending disarray.

Shit. This had better work.


	17. Here's to Tricks of the Trade

Natasha woke to a pounding headache. Her entire body hurt. She felt stiff and brittle and generally how one feels after being toasted from the inside out after 50,000 volts of electricity is discharged into your flesh and courses through your body. Not an altogether pleasing or recommended experience. (Don’t try tasers at home kids.) Yet unfortunately, it was one that was strikingly familiar. She took stock of her surroundings as much as possible while not moving or giving any indication she had woken up; it was generally better to delay when one finds themself newly in captivity, because you could really expect nothing good to happen to you once your captors know you’re awake. 

She was tied to a chair- solid metal frame, coarse rope fibers. The rope bit into her wrists and ankles and burned more than the alternative, smoother polyester or nylon cords, but she was glad for it because it is much easier to saw or even bite through the natural fiber rope she was bound with. Also, her hands were bound together and secured behind the back of the chair, immobilized, which surprised her. As a general rule, when immobilizing a hostage you tie the wrists separately, such as to the arms of a sturdy chair, in order to make it significantly more challenging to cut or slip out of the restraints. The arms should always be tied in plain view, not behind the captive or out of sight, so as to discourage any attempts to break free, because any struggling would be immediately noticed and met with extreme prejudice. 

All very amateur moves on her captor's part. 

And while all of that was good for her, they actually just pissed her off, because she, Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, elite SHIELD agent, deadly assassin, Avenger for christ’s sake, did not get captured when she did not want to be, and certainly not by amateurs. Damnit, she would kill anyone who spoke a word of this embarrassment. 

She was draped forward in the chair, though securely bound. Her hair had fallen out of its pins and messy loose curls cascaded down and around her face in a fiery waterfall, considerably obstructing what she could see when she cautiously opened her eyes a fraction. She remained still and maintained her slowed breathing so as not to betray her consciousness, but was able to discern a few things about her surroundings.

The air was cool and damp with little circulation or ventilation, suggesting she was below ground on a basement level. The floor was old cement, cracked and stained with obvious signs of wear. The walls, or at least the corner she could see, were yellowing and showed signs of water damage where the paint was peeling, but were once white plasterboard. A few rusted old pipes were suspended from the low ceiling and ran along the perimeter of the room. All of which supported her subterranean theory.

She heard a heavy metal door, old and well rusted, in the wall facing her screech and shudder on its hinges as it was shoved open. Two pairs of feet approached; one set was big and heavy, lumbering almost, and the other was light, impatient, and the tapping sound they made on the floor were reminiscent of leather dress shoes- not the appropriate, or at least typical, attire one wears to an interrogation.

"Is she awake yet?" She identified the Russian speaker as Vakhrov. 

"I don't know, sir." The second gruff voice, also in Russian, replied dully.

"Then how hard is it to find out?!" Vakhrov hissed, obviously irritated. "And you, have you sorted out that fire alarm yet?"

Another man replied, "Yes sir, it has been taken care of, and all threats have been handled accordingly."

"Finally, someone who can get things done around here," he muttered.

Heavy footsteps started in her direction again, slightly faster this time. Natasha needed to decide how she was going to play this, now. There were a few approaches to consider when undergoing interrogation. One was to shut down completely: no talking, no answering questions, or even looking at your captors, and no moving except for one small, repeated, monotonous movement like slowly tapping a foot or fingers (the point of which bing it was something to focus on completely, and it unsettled interrogators in the right situation). While useful in that it gives away no information, it wouldn't get Natasha anything either, except more pain than she cared for as it tended to lead to less conversation and stalling and more to the use of beatings or sharp implements. 

Then there was the complete opposite, which was more counter-interrogation based, usually involving a lot of talking, some taunting, and confusing misinformation that would help keep her alive as well as get her interrogators to give away plenty of information at the same time. When you don’t stop talking, your captor has to listen to everything, because anything could be what they’re looking for, even though you basically keep babbling irrelevant information and blatant (and contradictory if you want to piss someone off) lies. This generally worked better when with inexperienced captors, and based on her observations thus far, that option seemed appropriate. 

There were a few other approaches, but somehow Vakhrov already knew who she was, so character playing was off the table, and she needed to stick around long enough to figure out what the hell was going on, so while she remained vigilant to opportunity for jailbreak, she would stay for at least long enough to get useful information, situation providing.

A huge man wearing a black t-shirt and cargo pants with a close cropped haircut walked into her field of vision. His outfit, haircut, and steroid-driven bodybuilder figure was almost comedic, seeing how it was so obvious he was trying to look the part of the no-nonsense-tough-guy GI Joe. He stopped in front of her, as if unsure how to proceed, and reached out to grab her shoulders and shake her awake.

Not appreciating this rather impolite gesture, and figuring she couldn't fake unconsciousness forever, Natasha decided to counter the only way available to her at the time (though she may have done it anyway even if she had other options) by biting him. The moment his huge meaty hands touched her shoulders, she jerked her head forward and latched her teeth onto the man's right wrist, clamping her jaw down viciously into his flesh. The man yelled in surprise and pain and Natasha tasted blood. He snapped his arm back but Natasha had already let go; hanging on would only result in getting beat around the head and frankly it was a bit disgusting. Either way, it had served its purpose.

The hulking man stumbled back away from her swearing, as Vakhrov walked closer, cursing the man's stupidity.

"Well I had expected you to be less feral, but but one should count on a 'black widow' to bite." He smirked at his own stupid pun, but his amusement vanished quickly when Natasha spit a mouthful of blood at him.

"You might be wondering why I haven't just killed you alr-"

"Nope, not really." She interrupted cheerfully, giving him a bright smile complete with red tinged teeth.

He practically snarled, and began again. "But it is really very simple. I know who you are, Miss Romanoff. I know who you work for, and why SHIELD," he emphasized with great disdain, "sent you here. You people have been chasing me around, scaring off, abducting and killing my clients, completely destroying my place of business, my merchandise!-" he yelled as he worked himself into greater and greater frustration as he went through the list, which wasn't helped by Natasha cutting in again.

"Yeah, sorry about that last one. I mean, all that hardware, just, boom. Gone. A real waste," she sighed mockingly. She would be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying it, just a little bit- making him angry.

"Yes," he replied through gritted teeth, face a little red. "Exactly my point. But what I want to know, is where are the others. SHIELD has its teams of little soldiers running around the world, sticking its nose in everyone's business, and where you find one you always find many more. Like rats. Now I know there are five of you. So where are they? Hmm? Doing what? Well, four now, the other one, he is dead-" he continued babbling on, but Natasha stopped even hearing his words.

Teams. Five. What? Dead. Other one. Dead now. Dead. Natasha's brain stopped processing. No. No no no.

She was numb, and cold, and fell far, far back into herself to a place she had not been in a long time.

Alarm bells were blaring in her head, her heart had stopped, tunnel vision prevented her from seeing anything but a patch of concrete beneath her, from where her head hung. She was frozen in place, felt crushed by an immense weight on her shoulders, felt like a million needles were stabbing ever inch of exposed skin, and everything stopped.

But then, just as suddenly as everything had stopped, it was like an ice bath was dumped on top of her. She had woken up, snapped out of it, shoved all of it aside. He was not dead. He wasn't because he couldn't be. It simply couldn't happen, not like this, not because of a man like that. 

She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name, couldn’t even make the connection, because that would make it seem too real, to possible.

He couldn't be dead because, without him, there was nothing left. 

All the while this torrent of thoughts and emotions flashed through her, Natasha's face remained stone cold and unreadable. She was calming thought, falling into a deadly, cold rage like she hadn't been in a very, very long time, and she was angry: angry at herself, at this imbecile of an arms dealer in front of her, this pathetic worm, not worthy of a tenth of the trouble they had spent on him, who had no idea what he was doing, who thought he was so much better than he was, who never in a million years would have the intelligence or the planning or the ability to stop and capture a SHIELD strike team with the experience, skill, and ability that she and her partner had, except for the fact that someone at SHIELD was in his pocket, damnit. 

This man, who was lying to her face, who had to be lying, saying he was responsible for her partner's death, when that just couldn't be. He was better than that. Clint was better than that. Yet, here he was, standing in front off her, acting like he had done all of this on his own, like there was no other possible way this could have turned out.

She took a breath. No. She forced all of these invading, raging thoughts and feelings away. This was not like her. This was exactly what he wanted- to enrage her, taunt her, pull her strings. Focus. He was lying. She would lie if she were in his place. Clint was fine, and probably making headway in completing the mission, especially if she was serving as a distraction. 

Thinking logically now, she focused on her situation. Now, what was it he had said? He knew there were five of them. Weird. He apparently knew about Clint and Natasha, but three more? No, only the two of them were originally assigned to this op. He had a source inside SHIELD, of that she was sure, but why would they feed him false information, and information that only hurt him, sending him looking for three more agents that weren’t there. Unless they didn’t know. Fury- he had said he would be hunting out Vakhrov’s source while they completed the operation from their end. He must have diffused false information- that’s what she would have done. 

That helped. She could work with that. 

Natasha was tuned back in to what was being said by a jarring slap that rang across her face, sharp and loud. It stung, but she moved her head with the force of the blow to lessen the impact. She straightened up, tossing her head to shake her hair out of her face as best she could, and met her assailant, Vakhrov, in the eye. She stared right through him with the cold, merciless glare which promised death that she had perfected so many years ago. 

His hand wandered forward as if to touch her, moving toward her wayward curls reflecting the light of the dimly lit room, but when she bared her teeth at him, pearl white still tinged red with blood, coupled with her glare, he seemed to think better of bringing his hand within range. He curled his outstretched fingers back into a loose fist, and took a wavering step back, sizing her up. 

She had made up her mind; she was going to kill this man. Violently, slowly, with all her many years of experience and knowledge in the ways of death and torture at her disposal. She didn’t care about their secondary objective. He had tried to have them killed. He had sent people to pursue them relentlessly. He had corrupted SHIELD, and organization that, while not perfect, she had placed her faith in to do right by her and the world, to be good, something she long ago lost faith that she herself could be. And he had threatened her partner, lied to her, tried to make her believe Clint, the one person in the world she trusted with her life, the person that gave her stability, an anchor, a home, was dead. Tried to make her believe the one person she could not live without, was dead.

That’s why he had to be lying.

She wouldn't do this, wouldn’t kill him, for Clint. Because he was still alive, and he wouldn't even want her to. He would say no, because he is the merciful one. He never approved of taking a life, no matter how much they deserved it. She, however, was the cold, vengeful one. She would do this for herself, because she wanted to. Because some small part of her felt it was absolutely necessary in order to protect her partner, to protect Clint, to keep him alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything to say? No? Nothing? No comment? Hit me up y'all


	18. Here's to Final Regrets

First the fire alarm went off, and the sounds of distress erupted from the kitchens. Initially it was a point of intrigue for the guests in the hall, ignorant to any danger whatsoever, but when the smell of smoke permeated the air and kitchen and wait staff spilled through the doors, panic spread just like the fire, getting a grip on the guests like a starving dog clings to a bone, not prepared to let go easily. They were prime targets for instigating a panic: wealth, leading safe and comfortable live, thrust into a situation in which they detected real danger that was completely foreign to them. Try as they might, the guards could not calm everyone down and keep the situation contained. Even the guards seemed to lose interest in their tasks and cast questioning glances at the exits.

The device Clint had used causes quite an initial blaze resistant to efforts to put it out, but dies back in intensity quickly, so he didn't stick around long. It did however seem to spread a bit more than he intended, because there were now kitchen staff abandoning the rooms, spilling out into the hallways and ballroom, smoke trailing along the ceiling and out the door with them. It was this that really put the fear of god into the crowd. 

He departed through the now unguarded doorway, and following Natasha's directions, took to the staircase three steps at a time, except headed down to the basement level. The blueprint they had gotten their hands on previously suggested the server mainframe which he was targeting as in the basement, centered in the middle of the foundation of the building. Considering how many guards had been moving into the guest hall, he was not surprised that he didn't see any patrolling the immediate hallways.

Upon completing his descent to the bottom level, he kept near the right wall and set off down the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder occasionally and keeping a careful eye and ear out for any trouble approaching. Unlike the upper floors, the basement had a considerable less finished look. The floors were simple concrete, thin spiderwebs of cracks radiating out from some places indicating aging, but all in all rather plain. The walls were plasterboard, parts near the ceiling yellowing or peeling from water damage and age in some places. Expanses of piping, some white painted and rusting at the welds and rivets, some old copper and turning a garish green from exposure, ran along the walls and ceiling, hanging above. 

The layout of the subterranean level was very unlike that of the upper floors, given the building was nearly 150 years old. The blueprints, and what he could see of the basement, showed how rather than the entire space below the building being excavated, only tunnel-like corridors with some smallish closet-style rooms off of them radiated out to the sides of the building from the center, which was like a central hub of the basement, where the main, wider hallways to which lesser corridors connected all came together, surrounded by various rooms. Basically the hallways and corridors made a grid, all leading to the center. All in all, the basement level probably consisted of a third of the square footage of the ground level floor.

Finally, the ringing of the fire alarm stopped, and he was enveloped by silence. His little fire bomb had probably been extinguished by now, and the guards had probably secured some measure of order again, but after that, he was sure the party would not be returning to it’s former state. Time to finish up quickly then. 

An ominous, monotonous dripping, now audible that the clamor of the alarm had ceased, echoed down the hall from a location he couldn’t quite determine. 

The base of the stairwell emptied out into a thin corridor the trailed the very outskirts of the lower level. Clint followed it until he was able to take a right into a wider hallway that ran perpendicular to it that would take him to the center, toward the server mainframe. He quickly came upon a pair of double doors blocking his path.

He tested the doors and found them locked, and while it didn't pose a problem to him, as he took less than ten seconds to unlock it, he found it odd that doors in the middle of the hallway would randomly be locked. Likely part of security, meaning it would be tighter down here seeing that Vakhrov really had turned the hotel into his temporary base of operations. He didn't waste time mulling over the thought however, and quietly closed the double doors behind him, moving on. 

Glancing around, he noted not just the continual lack of the presence of guards, but that there were no security cameras in the hallway. He supposed it was because he had just barely penetrated the perimeter, and that security would increase as he continued.

Clint cleared the small occasional side rooms down the hallway as he passed them. Natasha and he had opted to not bring many weapons because of the difficulty of concealing them and for the reason that they had not expected everything to go to terribly wrong. This was not an expectation born of ignorance or haste, however, but simply that the hundreds of assignments the two experts had completed had given them a sense of what type of mission has a higher risk factor and which is a walk in the park. This current assignment was certainly not their hardest, or most dangerous, but that was mostly due to a lack of information, time to prepare, and backup, not well trained or formidable opponents. 

All of this aside though, Clint was beginning to seriously rethink that notion. He was itching to have his bow in hand, wanting nothing more than the comforting, weight of his quiver at his back, the familiar feeling of a bowstring pulled taunt, muscles tensing, or the soft rustle of the fletching through his fingertips as he released. Yeah, he missed his bow. At least he did have his set of three well concealed throwing blades, two more fire starters, two tear gas canisters of similar compact size (a disk, maybe three inches in diameter and one inch wide), and a wire garotte hidden along the inside of his belt. 

To his left, there was a smaller hallway that passed by another staircase leading up to the ground floor, the hallway seeming to lead away from beneath the Southern wing of the building that contained the ballroom and into the underbelly of the main structure, assuming his spatial and directional orientation were correct. That was where he wanted to go. He noted there was a fixed security camera on the corner facing down that hallway toward the stairs, so it seemed likely it lead further inside the sensitized zone Vakhrov had established. That too, unfortunately, was where he wanted to go. He was getting very close to the center though. He inched along the wall beneath it in the camera’s blindspot until he had passed the intersection.

Coming across the next door, he took a quick look inside and somewhat to his surprise found the room occupied by two huge guards, each at least 6'4" and pushing 250 pounds. sitting at a desk with monitors and screens on the wall depicting security camera footage. 

Clint quickly pulled back away from the door and assessed his situation. Access to that security footage would go a long way toward locating the computer server room he was targeting in timely fashion, evaluating the rotations and strength of numbers of the guards, and even shutting the cameras down if possible so he himself couldn’t be tracked as he continued on.

Two to one aren't bad odds, especially when your opponents are that huge, actually. Big guys like that are slow and tend to rely on raw strength, not speed, precision, or strategic thinking. Plus, from what he had seen so far, it’s not like any of them were professionally trained or practiced. So in some ways he had an edge, but maybe he was trying to be optimistic. Taking on one at a time seemed like a better option. 

Retreating back down the hallway, he stopped at the intersection he had passed. He inched his way along the wall to avoid being captured by the security camera once more and then reached up and yanked on the routing wire that carried the camera's feed to the circuit, loosening it enough to cut the feed and instead have the camera return static. He then took off his tie (because 1 it was restrictive and too easy for someone to choke him with and 2 he didn’t want to use the wire garrote until absolutely necessary because blood, everywhere, on everything, and he didn’t really want to kill the hired help) and pressed himself as far as he could into the wall right around the corner and waited. 

As he had hoped, in a few minutes he heard heavy footsteps and muttered swearing at faulty technology in Russian approach the corner behind which he was waiting, ready to pounce.

Just as the unsuspecting man turned the corner, Clint whirled away from the wall and, standing upright from his former slight crouch for more momentum, one hand going to the back of his target’s bowed head, with the other slamming his elbow into his throat with a slight crunch while simultaneously yanking his head downward into it. Ouch. Not nice, but Clint needed to silence the guy, and the throat was a soft target. His victim staggered forward and clasped his throat with a strangled gasp, but he didn't have long to process because in the same second Clint leaped at his now hunched back, pulling them both back into the wall away from the corner and out of sight, and locked his arm around the big guy's neck, forcing his hands away and using the tie as a noose. As Clint struggled to maintain the few seconds of pressure he needed to cut arterial blood flow to the brain sufficiently to render his target unconscious, the slightly incapacitated guard was trying his best to rid himself of his attacker. Having grabbed onto Clint's forearms, he pulled and shoved in an attempt to free himself, but finding Clint to be persistent, backed against the wall and proceeded to slam him into it. Repeatedly.

Between jarring impacts with the wall, Clint thought about how glad he was that no one was there to bear witness to his situation; he would never hear the end of it. Really, how long does it take to knock a guy out. He say the Russian reaching finally for the gun in his belt, fumbling but managing to draw it, though Clint prevented him from turning it on him by practically leaping up onto the guy piggy-back style, hooking one leg around the gan bearing arm at his knee and immobilizing it at his side. It was not graceful, and in fact was very ungainly, but it was effective enough. Gradually, the struggling lessened and the guard slid to his knees before hitting the ground, lights out, unfired gun dropping to the floor besides him. Unfortunately though, when he fell, he toppled halfway passed the corner and into the intersection of the hallways. Just as Clint straightened up, letting go of his tie, the other guard exited the surveillance room.

"Sergei, what is all that banging-" he said in Russian, though stopped in his tracks when he saw Clint standing over ‘Sergei’, apparently. He hesitated for a moment, before his hand flew to the weapon at his belt.

This was not ideal; not for Clint anyway, but he reacted quickly on reflex. 

He cartwheeled over the sprawled unconscious body of Sergei, apparently, scooping up the guard’s dropped handgun as he rolled, and coming to a stop on one knee, he hurled the weapon at the second guard standing a good five meters away, who had raised his gun to fire. Clint’s odd projectile hit home, knocking the weapon from his hand, and both skidded across the floor. He wasn’t willing to risk a gunshot drawing more attention. The guard looked at his stinging hand in shock for a moment, but recovered, charging at Clint with one meaty fist raised in a powerful swing, but Clint ran at him as well, dropping to the ground at the last second to dodge the blow and sliding past him. Leaping up quickly to a crouch, Clint landed a forceful kick to the side of the Russian's left knee, targeting the tendons there, causing him to collapse to his right. Clint leaped towards his unguarded back, but the guy turned quickly and knocked him aside with a muscled arm. He rolled and was on his feet again in a second, but it was enough time for his opponent to collect himself and stand again, although leaving weight off his left leg. Realizing he could exploit his impaired balance, Clint darted forward and, with a running jump, landed both of his feet solidly in the guard's abdomen, forcing him to stumble backward into the wall and catch his breathe, but not for long. The Russian pushed off the wall back at Clint, who was on his feet again after executing a fluid back roll as he hit the ground, and the two exchanged a flurry of blows for a short moment.

No matter how he excelled in hand-to-hand combat, most all of the strikes Clint delivered had nearly no effect on his much larger combatant. This was what he had wanted to avoid.. All he could really do was avoid the punches that the Russian delivered as best he could and wait for weaknesses that Clint could exploit to make themselves evident.

The guard bull-rushed forward at Clint suddenly and trapped him against the wall with his sheer weight, pinning him with his shoulder. His arm locked around Clint's outstretched arm that was gripping the guard's shoulder, trying to push him back. With his other arm, the Russian pounded his fist into Clint's abdomen and side while Clint strained to move his other arm to the wrist that was pinning him down. Clint grunted through bloodied teeth (he had bit his lip quite painfully when slammed into the wall) as his ribs protested the abuse. Finally, after mere seconds that felt so much longer, he managed to get a firm grip on the guard's wrist, and using his other arm around the guard's shoulder for leverage, twisted his own body to the left, spinning, and wrenched the Russian's left arm with him across his body, dislocating it. The guard yelped in pain at the audible popping of his shoulder, and shoved Clint away from him as he curled forward instinctively and clasped his injured shoulder. Clint pushed back off the wall and brought his knee up, slamming it into the Russian's face as he leaped upward, and with a quarter rotation in air, brought his elbow down on the back of his neck on his way back down. He stepped aside and shoved the semi-conscious guard headlong into the wall, his head actually leaving a massive dent in the crumbling plasterboard, and he dropped like a rock. He didn't get up, and probably wouldn't do so for quite a while.

Clint leaned back against the wall for support and cradled his ribs, just giving himself a moment to catch his breath before pushing onward back to the surveillance room. If not fractured, the bones were definitely bruised badly enough.

Once inside the room, something beside the table caught his eye. It was a frequency jammer, and not the 20 buck toy you order on the Internet, but the military grade industrial size version. That would be the reason their coms went down, he noted, again feeling a sinking feeling of worry for his partner. He collapsed into one of the chairs and skimmed through the footage on the many screens. He mostly saw hallways, building entrances and exits, and a few patrolling guards, but one room caught his attention. Two guards were posted at the steel reinforced door, and inside was what he was looking for: the vast computer mainframe. In the corner of the small section of screen that displayed the footage, it indicated that particular display feed came from the basement level. Alright, he was in the right place. 

He was about to force himself out of the chair and carry on with business before another screen caught his attention, and caused his heart to skip a beat. There in the grainy footage was a small cellar room with a metal chair in the center, and slumped in that chair was the still form of his partner and friend. He was frozen in place, eyes locked on the screen. Fuck. The only thing keeping him sane was the little voice in the back of his head saying that dead people didn’t get tied to chairs. She looked so small though, unmoving, and he was terrified. 

Skrew his objective. He was coming to get her out of there.

Swearing violently, he jumped up and ran for the hallway, no longer feeling or caring about the pain in his side. He quickly searched the two guards and bound them with cuffs they had on them, Sergei’s left arm to the other’s right ankle, and the other’s right arm to Sergei’s left ankle so they were locked together like some odd puzzle configuration, though he was fairly certain neither would wake up anytime soon. He chucked the keys down the opposite end of the hallway. He collected one of the handguns, and took the unspent clip of ammunition from the other, tucking them into his belt. He was rushing, he knew. He should have pulled the guards into the room and out of sight, but he couldn’t waste any more time to get to Natasha. She needed him. He should have been there for her damnit- she needed him and he wasn’t there to have her back.

He did however spare one more second to take the two remaining fire starters and place one among the computers behind the monitors, the other in the thick rope of wires running into the room. He wouldn’t need to dodge security cameras when the computers, monitors, and routing cords were all burnt to a crisp. Having set them to a fifteen second timer, he took off.

As he rounded the corner, another guard entered his line of sight as he turned his back to Clint around a far corner, walking away down the hallway. This guy was more average sized, armed, radio in hand.Clint stole forward on light feet, semi-crouched but moving quickly as he advanced on the man. He didn’t care about collateral this time; he needed to get to Natasha ASAP. He drew a dagger, running up practically right behind the unsuspecting man before leaping at his back, and in one jagged motion, brought his arm around his neck and cut his throat. Clint knew where to target, and it took only seconds for the man to bleed out through his severed arteries after he collapsed to the floor. 

Clint moved on, unfeeling and unforgiving. He was almost running, and he rounded corners and cleared hallways, passing more now useless security cameras as he went and dropping two more guards in a similar fashion. These were not the hotel’s security. They were Vakhrov’s hired guns, thugs and mercs who sold their services to criminals, people like Vakhrov, who no doubt had blood on their hands. But more importantly, they were between him and his partner. So no, he didn’t think twice. 

He was right outside what he was referring to as the central hub of the basement. When he rounded the last corner, two patrolling guards entered the far side of the hallway to the left of another staircase. The saw him, yelled for him to stop, but of course he didn't, so the both pulled out guns and started firing. Well shit, but hell, he was right there in the middle now, so he supposed the time for stealth had passed.

Clint dove forward to the main hall directly across from the base of the metal spiraling staircase and crouched behind the corner as a hail of bullets flew by. The guards were still running forward, abandoning all cover, and unloading their weapons into the wall and down the hallway, though Clint was covered. During the briefest of pauses in the shooting (Clint counted the spent rounds- they were reloading) Clint leaned out, gun now drawn, quickly firing off two rounds, each finding their mark in the chest. They fell with cries of pain, but by this time the sounds of gunfire had echoed around the corridors and rooms of the basement and all of the guard's were converging on his location. 

But there, right down the main hallway around the turn of the corner, was the steel door he had seen on the security feed housing the mainframe. Damnit- he needed to get to Natasha, but he was taking from three directions, it was right in his path, right there, and he couldn’t justify skipping over it when he wouldn’t get another chance.

He spun around to continue down the main hallway to the door, and was just meters away, but saw further down the hallway was blocked by three more guards running to meet him. He fired off a few shots, back to the steel door of the server room now, the lip of it providing very limited cover, not really looking or aiming anywhere in particular in that split second, just center body mass, and two dove for cover through side doorways, but the third fell to the floor clutching his abdomen. 

Clint turned to face the door, and stepping back a pace, put two bullets through the old, rusted lock. Just as he did so, Clint felt like he had been hit in the back by a baseball bat on his left side, just below his rib cage, which was followed by a searing white hot pain that nearly brought him to his knees. He didn’t stop though, didn’t even hesitate, and kicked the door in, throwing himself inside. He turned, landing hard on his back on the concrete floor, and kicked the door shut behind him. He had been shot before, but one never quite gets used to the feeling of a bullet ripping through flesh and shattering bones. In the cover of the room, he used his precious seconds to take stock of his wounds.

Minus the probably fractured ribs, the bullet wound alone was a concerning. It went all the way through his left side, the exit wound just grazing his bottom rib. As far as he could tell it was just a flesh wound and didn't hit anything vital, but it was bleeding quite a bit, and it hurt like nothing else, and he wasn't in a situation to do anything about it.

He loaded the spare clip into his now empty gun and, forcing himself upright, got to his feet, and leaned against the wall for support. He had seconds before guards came barging into the now unlocked room; they probably only hadn’t already because they knew there were no other exits- he was trapped, and they knew he was wounded.

Clint shuffled back, and with a few strong kicks, dislodged the bottom of a thick iron pipe that ran down the wall parallel to the door. He shoved it forward, not budging at first, but slowly the old metal shrieked in protest as it pivoted. Finally he had it running diagonally across the door, firmly wedging it closed.

Clint was breathing heavily now and starting to feel the effects of blood loss. He was feeling a little lightheaded, and was swaying on his feet. He had taken off the blood soaked remains of his jacket, and cutting off a sleeve, used the expensive fabric to stem the flow of blood, but it hadn't stopped He would be in serious trouble if he didn't make it stop soon.

Looking around the inside of the server room, he took in the towers of computer hard drives, cables, and wires that lined the room and and ran through it in rows, leaving barely enough room for a grown man to walk between them without his shoulder brushing the sides. The room was dark and slightly refrigerated to keep the massive computers from overheating, and the small flashing lights of different colors all over the computers cast the whole room in a strange glow.

Really struggling know, Clint forced himself to move towards the center of the room to the operator's station. His skin felt feverish in the cool, circulating air. He was still bleeding pretty badly. He was almost done though, he told himself. Almost done, then he was going to get Natasha and get the hell out of there. And shit, when it was all said and done, he was going to kick Fury’s ass. This assignment was cursed. Everything about it, just awful.

There was loud banging from the door, and pipe securing it closed was groaning under the repetitive impact. It wasn’t going to hold forever.

He sank into the chair at the main operator’s computer, turned on the monitor with a few key strokes, and plugged the drive into the appropriate port. Warnings flashed across the screen as the virus began to upload. Lights began to flash on the computer towers around him, there was a beeping accompanying the warning signals, and a window quickly opened up on the monitor. Rows and rows of code scrolled by, and upon seeing the words, 'Initiating total system wipe' and 'Complete system failure', he did feel a sense of satisfaction, which was heightened by sudden whirring sound and then all of the computers going dark, lights shutting down all at once, all sounds stopping. 

Okay, okay, step one, complete. 

Codes destroyed, and a bunch of other technology in the building and the area connected by the Wi-Fi and the routers were fucked up, but the codes were gone. Vakhrov was stupid enough to get rid of all hard copies because electronic data was easier to move and sell, so all that was left of the nuclear launch codes were now ripped apart into ones and zeros, data lost and corrupted and consumed by whatever the hell Stark had made. 

Clint’s eyes wandered to the side of the desk, where something caught his eye. Duct tape, thank god, a field operative’s best friend. Fumbling, his finger uncooperative, he grabbed it. He folded the bloodied piece of his ruined jacket and shoved it tight against the wounds in his side. With jerking movements, he began wrapping his midsection with duct tape, securing it tightly to his side, restricting the outflow of blood considerably. 

The pounding at the door continued, sounding like someone, or multiple someones, were throwing themselves up against it. The pipe had loosened against the wall from the repeated assault, concrete dust shifting and falling in a light dusting to the floor with each vigorous thrust. Clint could tell it would give way any second now. 

He may have temporarily fixed the hole in his side, but he was trapped in here. There was no backdoor, all of the walls were concrete, and the vents were far too small. There was only the one door, and who knows how many suits with guns behind it.

Clint forced himself up from his chair, unsteady, and began to shuffle to the back of the room. Suddenly, there was the sound of buckling metal, and the door burst open. A guard, having obviously thrown himself into the door, stumbled inside, though quickly recovered and began yelling at Clint to not move and put his hands up and a bunch of other crap, but Clint was not in the mood. He hardly processed the Russian, brain working slowly and still lightheaded, but noted it was weird he wasn’t just shooting him. There was a gun pointed at him though, and he saw more guards back just outside the door. The doorway was narrow though, and the room very cramped, so they stayed back.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he muttered. Holding onto the desk for support, he tossed his gun aside, and held his hands up placatingly as he shifted a little closer to the guard. 

He wasn’t going out without a fight. 

Like most people with a gun, the guard made the mistake of coming too close. When he glanced away from Clint to the still flashing screen, Clint struck the gun out of his hand with a quick though messy jab, causing it to fall and go spinning across the floor.

The guard however then launched himself at Clint, who, unsteady from blood loss, toppled backward with the man landing on top of him. In both of their scrambles to gain the upper hand, the guard's forearm pushed against Clint's ribs, causing him to yelp in pain. Clint swore and pushed the guard off of him with his legs, rolled to the side, and grabbed the gun that he had forced the guard to drop. He then righted himself, turning over onto his back and aimed at the guard, who had also been reaching for the gun Clint had dropped. The shocked expression seemed to be frozen on his face when Clint unloaded two bullets into the man's chest. He didn't like it- seeing someone ie up close and personal like that, seeing the fear flash across their face, and the life leave their eyes- but Clint didn’t have to like it.

Clint dragged himself to cover quickly behind one of the towering rows of computers, which provided fairly decent shelter from the bullets now flying his way, actually. He had one handgun and two clips of ammunition, against a veritable army, and to make matters worse, he was fairly certain he would pass out in a few minutes from a combination of pain and pretty severe blood loss.

Clint forced himself to his knees with a groan before he doubled over in a fit of coughing, bringing his hand away when he recovered and seeing red. Apparently the bullet wound in his side was worse than he thought because, well, he was spitting up blood. That was never good. He felt his ribs gingerly, grimacing. Okay, definitely fractured. Even better.

"Fan-freaking-tastic," he muttered between bouts of coughing, a metallic taste in his mouth. To make things even worse, his struggling made his side start bleeding again.

He didn't see a way out, had no plans, and no backup. A hail of bullets ricocheted off the computers covering him. He was pinned down. Nowhere to go. His head was spinning, thoughts moving slowly. Natasha was still in danger, god knows where. Natasha. 

Fuck, he fucked up. He shouldn’t have left her. Shouldn’t have ever agreed to this fool's errand in the first place. He couldn’t help but feel it was his fault. He was the senior agent after all… And he was going to die down there.

This was the end, and he wouldn’t even be able to say goodbye. Not to Nat, not to Kate, not to Lucky, or any of those nice people at the apartment building. Wouldn’t even be able to tell her, to tell Natasha, that… it didn’t matter. They might both die down there. He didn’t care if he died. He just prayed with everything he had that she would make it out. Maybe if Clint provided big enough of a distraction, if all of the guards closed in on him, she would be able to.

Maybe she could then tell Kate what happened to him. A panicked thought flew across his head, that he didn’t know if anyone from SHIELD even knew about Kate Bishop, his friend, his comrade, his protege. If anyone would tell her he died. He couldn’t bear the thought of her not knowing what happened to him, not knowing why he just disappeared...

The seconds ticked by. Any minute now, even if he didn’t pass out, those guards out there would move in on him, It really, really didn't look good. But, what the hell. Go out fighting, right? Take a few of the bastards with him. Hope heaven or hell lets him in. Honestly thought, with all the red on his ledger, he certainly wasn’t going anywhere good… if there was anything… after. 

Again, Clint forced himself to stand, and bracing himself against the wall of computers, readied himself for the inevitable. Best make his bullets count.


	19. Here's to Distressed Damsels and Daring Rescues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit happens.

It didn't take her captors long to pull out all of their toys and display them ever so intentionally on shiny metal trays atop a wheeled cart in front of her, very mad scientist style. It was obviously an intimidation tactic, but not even a halfway decent one, because these were not the tools of the trade of a professional interrogator. There were all kinds of sharp things that, with a little imagination, someone with skills could put to good use, but in the hands of Vakhrov or any of his goons that she had seen, they were just various sharp implements- odds and ends.

The movies would make you think anyone could properly interrogate someone, via torture obviously, but in reality, there was skill involved, and necessary training required. You can’t just start cutting on someone until they tell you what they want. People lie. People do anything to make the pain stop. If they know you’re going to kill them, if the see no light at the end, they’re not at all motivated to tell the truth. At the same time, if simply causing pain is your chosen approach, it takes a professional to know where the proper nerves and soft targets are, how to get to them, with what, and how to use them. 

But that is only one approach, and it typically only works on laypeople. Those trained in counter-interrogation, such as herself, are far better equipped, and breaking them takes time, patience, unfeeling cruelty, deception, an intimate knowledge of the individual cause, purpose, and background, and occasionally various mind altering drugs. Some sicker individuals than her had called interrogation an art, and while distasteful, Natasha couldn’t really argue with it.

In fact, Natasha was pretty sure she had seen this in a movie before that she had watched with Clint in Kiev after a job. They did that occasionally, watch spy movies to laugh at the ridiculous action sequences and the outlandish plans and gadgets and to see how the world interpreted what it is that they do. But the world had no idea, and it was a crappy movie anyway.

Natasha shook all thoughts of her partner out of her mind; they were just distracting and made her feel... uncomfortable. Vakhrov was still acting like he truly believed that he was- gone. No, she was tied to a chair. Clint wasn't there; she didn't need to be thinking about him. But he was in the building somewhere, and probably fine- he could take care of himself.

Her interrogators though... Natasha had to try hard not to smile or laugh... amateur hour. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t a little concerned though. She had zero interest in any of these things on display being used on her. 

"Just answer the question, and we won't have to do this. It would be a shame to mess up such a pretty face," the big Russian lug said in English, but with a very thick accent, so much so that his words were almost indistinguishable. It would probably- no, definitely- have been easier to understand him if he had just spoken Russian.

"You think I'm pretty?" Natasha said sweetly with an innocent head tilt, eyes bright and wide.

The big fella growled, yes growled, at her in response. Vakhrov was standing in the corner leaning absently against the wall, silent for once, and rolled his eyes in annoyance. The guard perused the rows of sharp instruments as menacingly as he possibly could, selecting one, examining it, then putting it back in its precise place to repeat the process. 

Alright, this guy may have been willing to smack her around a bit, as she found out in the first few minutes of this little show, but he didn’t have the stones to actually put any of them to use. But what were they waiting for?

"How many more of you are there, where are they, and what exactly does SHIELD know?" Such generic questions… And that sad attempt at English. Where to begin?

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but could you just repeat that in Russian? I think I would understand you better."

He took a threatening- or what she assumed was him trying to be threatening- step forward and raised his arm as if to hit her, but Natasha didn't flinch or brace for the strike, she just smiled at him. She had discovered about five minutes in that smiling cheerfully at the big guy really threw him off his game, and it was just so entertaining to watch.

As she expected, he backed down with a growl and a stupid expression on his face. He walked over to his boss leaning idly against the wall and in Russian this time (apparently he thought Natasha hadn't been serious about her last remark) said, "She is crazy. What the hell am I supposed to do with someone who just welcomes pain like that?" 

Vakhrov opened his mouth to respond but Natasha beat him to it. "Look, boys, I know you have a job to get done, and you don't have all day. I mean, I'm on a tight schedule too, so, let me help you out. To be honest, your technique needs some work. Let me just give you some pointers, and you guys take notes. I'm serious, this is good stuff, it'll help you later on."

Her Russian friend looked genuinely intrigued; Vakhrov just looked annoyed but had resigned himself to dealing with her backchat a while ago. He was continually checking his wrist for the time though, and his eyes kept flicking to the door. He was waiting for someone. That was possibly something to be concerned about.

"First, I get it that this is a scare tactic," she said nodding to the display of torture devices, "but you shouldn't reveal all of your plays right out of the gate. Leave some things covered up, because I promise you, frightened people will imagine things so much worse under there than what you’ve actually got. Secondly," she continued, "the threat of violence is certainly effective, but you’ve gotta make me believe you’ll follow through. You keep saying that if I talk, you won't have to do anything to me, but you haven't actually done anything yet except knock me around a bit. See the problem? If you have to use violence, start slow, wind it up as you go, then say it can stop. It is a much greater motivator."

She paused for breath. "Are you quite done?" Vakhrov said venomously, "Because, I might just take that advice." He grabbed a scalpel off a tray and started coming at her with it, but Natasha just sighed. "Are you serious? Look at yourself; thousands of dollars spent on a suit suit and hand made Italian leather shoes that cost at least that much? You wanna get blood on that?" He hesitated for a moment, looking down at his wardrobe choice. "I thought that's what that guy was for, but he doesn't look like he has a violent bone in his body. He's practically a huge teddy bear." The big guy definitely looked a little bit sad this time. She shrugged, offering him a consoling, sad smile. 

Vakhrov cursed everything about the situation and then yelled at his employee to get out and go find ‘him’ and tell him to hurry the fuck up.

Lovely. They were waiting for someone, as she suspected.

That was alright with her though; she was just taking up as much time as she could while she sawed away at her bonds behind her back with a loose screw she had pulled from the chair. Broke two nails already, by the way. Which sucked.

A few minutes after he left, a familiar but unwelcome face walked through the door. It was old scar-face, the guy who was tailing them, and who they unceremoniously blocked in the alley, when they first got into the city.

She perked up a bit in her chair. "Oh hey, I know you. Meant to tell you but never really got the time; nice scar. How'd you get it?" she asked abruptly. It was childish, but whatever. 

He just stepped toward her and struck her across her face, right on her jaw line, and sneered at her.

Natasha straightened up and shook it off. She cracked her neck to both sides and looked him in the eyes, a small hurt frown on her lips, like he hurt her feelings. "Rude."

He hit her again, this time a little harder. "Okay, I asked for that one." She knew she had really better stop, but she couldn't help herself.

And again. That hurt a bit, actually. Her bottom lip was busted, there was small cut over her cheekbone from his ring, and there would definitely be bruises later. This guy was doing it right though, not responding to taunts and punishing them immediately. Kudos to him.

"What are you? Ex Russian Spetsnaz?" Thud. This time he hit her midriff, and he really put his weight behind it, causing her to double over. "Secret police?" Again. Natasha winced, gasping a little for breath, but she recovered quickly. She really needed to stop, but she was almost through the rope, and she just needed them to all stay in front of her. If that’s what it took to keep them there, she could take. "Ex KGB?" And again. "Oh yeah, you're ex KGB. It's the shoes, always the shoes."

He didn't actually hit her this time, but frowned a little at her comment on shoes, raising an eyebrow. A questioning look. "It's your boots,” she explained, happy to enlighten everyone. “KGB protocol is shoes you can lace up high enough to run in, sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of the average day in the life of a KGB agent, but they doesn't have you tuck your pants into em' like everyone else. And for most guys, that kind of protocol becomes second nature; sticks with ‘em when they get out, like you, apparently, Mr. KGB."

He seemed a little interested at that tidbit of knowledge, but Natasha couldn't really tell because he hit her again, fist to abdomen, causing her to double over as far as she could with her arms tied to the back of the chair as they were. “Trust me. I have an intimate knowledge of the KGB, my friend, and of fashionable yet functionable footwear.”

"Answer the questions Mr. Vakhrov has for you, or we move on to something a little more fun for me, and a lot more painful for you."

He picked up a hunting knife off the table and twirled it expertly, and with real intent.

"I'm pretty sure I've used that line before..."

He stepped towards her again, and in one fluid, easy extension of arm and knife, sliced her upper arm open, right below the shoulder. Natasha bit her lip at the pain. It wasn't all that deep of a cut, but it certainly hurt like a bitch, and a bunch of little slashes like that were just as bad as more serious ones. 

She also didn’t think Mr. KGB Scar-face was going to stop at one. He was now all up in her personal space, ghosting the blade’s razor sharp edge over her jawline, delicately trailing it down the column of her throat. She didn’t lean away, didn’t pull her head back, because it would just give him more access and wouldn’t help anything. She simply stared coldly at him, frozen still as the tip of his blade returned to graze along underneath her chin, tipping her head upward.

She was about to throw some serious shade with a beautifully sassy insult about his perceived manhood and sexuality, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of people running by outside the door, talking loudly about something she couldn’t quite make out. No one else in the room seemed to pay it much attention until multiple loud and very distinct gunshots rang through the hallways outside.

"What in the hell? You stay here, don’t stop." Vakhrov ran out of the room in a manner that suggested he was going to go investigate, but more likely he was running away and hiding like a little girl. She was about to tell him as much, but he was already gone. 

Damnit, twice now she was robbed of the opportunity for snappy one-liners.

"Guess it's just you and me in here, huh? Cozy." She smiled, but this time, instead of the sweet innocence in her eyes, there was a grisly, vindicating sort of joy there, and cruel snarl twisting her lips into a smirk, because she was working her way through the last threads.

The Ex KGB Asshole with the knife had stepped away when the shots first echoed out, glancing at the door, but when more gunfire was exchanged, and very closeby from the sound of it, he turned toward the door for a moment. 

That was the opportunity she was waiting for.

With one last tug, the rope binding her hands broke with a barely audibly snap. He whirled on her quickly, but she caught his knife wielding arm with it inches away from her skin. Gripping his arm tightly, she pulled him down toward her, still seated, with a vicious yank using his body weight for leverage to heave herself and the chair forward. She, the chair, and Scar-face smashed into the the cart holding up the neatly organized trays of tools, and along with the multitude of shiny and sharp implements, they cascaded to the floor. Natasha ripped through the rope tying her ankles to the chair with a hefty serrated blade that fell to the floor within easy reach, and in the same second rolled backwards over her shoulder into a clear space behind the tangle of chair, rope, torture tools, cart, and man. 

KGB finally got to his feet, still holding the knife, and assumed a standard fighting ready stance. Natasha wasted no time in darting forward, ducking under his knife thrust, and stepping up onto the side of the overturned metal chair, she swung herself up onto his shoulders. She barely clung onto him, the position not ideal, and struggled to bring her knife down into the join of his neck and shoulder while he resisted, grabbing hold of her wrist and pushing away. She would not win a battle of direct force, so she quickly relented and slid further down his back, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her legs tangling in his own, putting all her weight and strength into yanking him backward and off balance.  
It worked, bringing them both to the ground in a tangle. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck while securing the arm with the knife with both of her legs out straight from his body. She used her core muscle to straighten her own body, pushing his arm out straight while at the same time doubling the pressure of her elbow hooked around his neck, her other arm clasping her own wrist to keep up her hold on him. 

He struggled and bucked wildly, but she was locked in place and not prepared to give way. With his free left arm, he felt around on the ground frantically for one of the dropped instruments, and, finding one, stabbed at her with it. She narrowly avoided being skewered by what looked like a sharp screwdriver by blocking his swing with the arm not holding her own wrist, but she wasn't strong enough to keep him in a headlock with just one of her arms. 

She released his arm with the knife she had forced straight by wrapping her legs around and, with her one arm still wrapped around his neck and under his chin, the other locked around the back of his head, she rolled backward, basically bringing her knees to her chest and using the momentum of the swing of her legs to begin to roll over her shoulder. This action, coupled with her arms locked around his neck, jerked his head up forcefully at an odd angle, effectively snapping his neck. He went slack on the ground, and Natasha’s half backward roll ended in a back-bend bridge arching off the ground. She released neck and with all the grace and pose of a ballerina, righted herself. Yep, she stuck the landing. 

Dusting herself off, she tiptoed barefoot around the many sharp objects in the floor, scooping up two medium sized, well balanced blades she could throw before heading for the door. Thee, she paused for a quick breath, and gave herself a one-over just to make sure she wasn’t too badly hurt.

For the 30 or so seconds that their tussle had lasted, the firefight outside continued, guns blasting, and people yelling. She had no idea what awaited her outside the room, but there was no other option. 

She had to find Clint. They had to finish this assignment, together. And she was going to rip Vakhrov limb from limb before this was all through.

Hauling the heavy door open, she was surprised to see no guards outside it or in the hallway to either side. She followed noise however, ears ringing from the echo of gunshots down the narrow concrete hallways, and saw why. When she peered around the corner a few meters down, she counted about seven guards, all with guns drawn, preparing to enter a room at the end of the hallway, about 20 meters away from her. They were clustered at the sides of the open door, and none of them seemed particularly eager to enter first, though they slowly stopped firing, hesitating. When one guard shifted barely too far out from the shelter of the wall and into the doorway, she realized why they hesitated when a single gunshot sounded and the man’s head snapped back, his unmoving body sliding to the floor, a single bullet wound between his eyes. 

That was a good shot- quick, made in a split second, and perfectly accurate...

It hit her then, alarm bells going off in her head as she came to the only possible conclusion that her partner was in there. Clint was in there, cornered, and needed her help.  
This was confirmed when she heard a familiar voice holler from within the room, “Who’s next ya bastards? Fucking cowards,” trying to insight them into stepping out into his line of fire.

A sad, relieved smile tugged at her lips. That was Clint alright. Relief was a powerful drug. It washed through her, easing the tight knot of worry born from simply not knowing that was balled up within her. A sob may have escaped her throat, raw and relieved, but if so, it was drowned out by renewed gunshots. No. Those needed to stop immediately. No one was allowed to shoot at her partner except her.

She pulled back inside the room when she heard two more guards running around the corner in her direction. As they passed, she stepped out behind them and threw the two smaller knives expertly, striking both targets in the back, right between the upper vertebra just below the base of the neck, causing them the drop silently.

Natasha ran up, quickly and quietly on bare feet, and relieved them of both of their handguns. Still unnoticed by the group of armed guards at the doorway who were very focused on what was through that door, she walked straight at them, both weapons raised and aimed in front of her, a cold, calculating purpose in each step. Before they registered the additional gunfire was not their own, she was cutting them down. In quick succession, they began dropping two at a time, each with a bullet in their skull or heart. The last man standing was the only who had time to register the attack and turn to face her, but he fell with nothing more than a whimper, just like the others.

She jumped over the crumpled heaps of bodies, dodging sprawled limbs and pooling blood. It was a massacre, but she didn’t care. She would kill a thousand more if they were shooting at Clint. She came up to the door and peered quickly around the edge before pulling back.

"Clint?" she called out hopefully, barely more than a whisper, slowly peering around the doorway. She noticed the computers, or what was left of them after round after round of bullets tore into them. The server mainframe, dismantled. Good. 

Her heart jumped when he answered.

"Nat?" She rushed inside, eyes searching through the dark room for her partner. She found him in the back of the room, on the ground, leaning back against the tower of computers he was taking cover behind. 

That same feeling of relief she felt moments prior returned, though seeing him in person, alive, here, with her, amplified the feeling a hundred times over. She was shaking, voice catching in her throat as she managed to get out "Um, you okay?" She fell to her knees besides him.

"Oh, yeah. Great. You?" A gun slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.

"Yeah, I'm okay." She couldn’t see much of anything in the dark; it looked like the lights had been shot out.

“Oh, that’s good. Cause I saw you on the monitors, in that room, the chair. I thought, I don’t know…” His words trailed off, broken speech mostly mumbled and a little slurred. Only then did that strike her as odd. 

“I’m fine. You know I’m no damsel in distress. I can take care of myself. You however-”

He laughed, a broken, raw sound escaping his throat. “I’m typically the damsel in this relationship.” That was followed by a fit of coughing. He wasn't getting up. Wasn’t moving much, just stayed slumped where he was. Why wasn’t he getting up? They needed to get out of there. Her thoughts were fumbling around in her head. He was not okay. He was not okay.

“Partnership,” she mumbled automatically, scooting closer to him.

“S’what I said, ain’t it?” 

“Okay. Let’s get outta here.” She reached for his to help him up, but immediately felt the wet, warm liquid soaking his clothing. “Oh god, you moron, you said you were okay!”

“I might have lied. A little.But I’ll be fine. In a bit.” He shifted, sitting up straighter, grimacing.

"Okay, you're gonna be fine, let’s just get out of here." She couldn’t see a damn thing, the only light in the room the dim flicker spilling in through the open door. She pulled his arm over her shoulder and hauled him to his feet, though stopped when he fought back a yelp of pain. With stumbling steps on his part, she maneuvered them toward the door. 

"Sorry, sorry- oh damn." She eased him back into a tower of damaged computers upon realizing the extent of his injuries for the first time in the light from the door.

"Hah, that's what I said," Clint offered in dry humor. He leaned over, spitting blood.

"You just had to get shot."

He nodded slightly. "Yup." Seeing there was nothing else to do about it, she pulled his arm back around her shoulders, supporting him while they stumbled past the pile of bodies and into the hall.

"Lost a lot of blood, huh?" she grunted, supporting more of his weight when he stumbled. 

He grinned only the way he would through bloodstained teeth. "Definitely." Damnit. His side was soaked in blood. He was pale, getting paler, skin cool, a cold sweat across his forehead, and his pulse was fast and thready. But he was still mostly alert, so no immediate danger of him hemorrhaging to death.

As they went, moving through hallways in the flickering lights, he seemed to notice her injuries for the first time, and concern showed in his eyes. "Nat, are you alright?" Was he completely oblivious to the fact that he was bleeding out in her arms? No, he just had to concern himself with her little scratches and bumps.

"I'm fine, some cuts and bruises. You're the one who's bleeding to death."

They set out slowly at first with Clint leaning heavily on Natasha for support, but gradually he put less weight on her and was walking mostly by himself. He had a fair understanding of the layout of the basement from his earlier activities, and directed her to go left or right when necessary. They were making their way to the East wing loading dock, which the subterranean level opened up to, according to the blueprints they had studied.

"So then, you’re okay? What happened, in there, while I set off on, my gallant, rescue mission and, succeeded in, wiping, the online server?" He asked between breaths that were becoming increasingly labored.

"Oh, just giving a lecture on proper interrogation technique, followed by saving your miserable ass."

"No need for that, didn't I already thank you?"

"Nope."

"You sure?"

"Yup, but I will still accept your thanks now."

"Nah, you just owe me one less now," he said, grinning.

“Don’t you always say it doesn’t work like that? No ‘owing’, no debts, just a working partnership? You scratch my back I’ll get yours, I believe is the saying?”

“Okay then, just put it,” he braced an elbow against the wall as they stopped. “On my tab,” he finished, a little winded but grinning like a maniac. He was apparently in good humor, despite the injuries, or maybe he was loopy from the blood loss.

They didn't encounter any more guards, but didn't find that surprising as Vakhrov had likely fled and taken the rest of them with him. "It should be right up here..." Clint said, motioning to the next corner. Around it was an old maintenance door with a worn out, hardly legible exit sign.

“Is that the fire alarm?” Natasha asked, listening as what had been a distant, muffled vibrating became louder and more distinct. Clint didn’t answer.

She knelt down to unlock the door and Clint braced himself against the wall again. His head was spinning, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, just for a moment. He was hurting, and there was a rushing sound in his ears; he thought his aids were on the fritz until he realized it was his own blood rushing he was hearing, and damn if it wasn’t loud. He felt weak too, and was totally winded and unable to catch his breath, but he was happy. Relieved. Exhausted, but everything was fine. They were fine. Natasha was fine. He would be fine, eventually. That was all that mattered. 

So what Vakhrov escaped. They could deal with him later. The codes were destroyed, meaning the imminent threat of nuclear destruction was no more, and the time crunch they were under previously had been lifted. So, it may have been a bad day, but it was damn near over now. 

Natasha heard the click as the door unlocked and forced its rusted hinges open. They stepped out from the old and forgotten side exit into the loading bay where trucks would back it to unload various deliveries to the hotel.

Natasha frowned. “That is definitely a fire alarm.” She looked around the cavernous room, sunlight spilling through the open gates at the far side. It was empty though, thankfully, so no one was alarmed by two blood covered people stumbling out onto the street. A breeze from the street wafted through the entrance. “Do you smell smoke? I smell smoke.”

“Uhh,” Clint managed, looking guilty as hell. “No, definitely not.”

The heard sirens very nearby, and lots of them. A police car roared by on the street outside the bay doors. They made their way slowly up the ramp to street level and glanced around the corner. Fire trucks, two ambulances, and at least a dozen police cars were clustered at the entrance of the hotel, lights flashing and sirens still blaring. More police cars and officers surrounded the building on the other sides. The wealthy ladies and gentlemen that were attending the gala were milling about the sidewalk and street, some speaking to police officers, off between the emergency vehicles a safe distance away from the building behind police barricades.

Why a safe distance away? Because the Southern wing of the building was on fire, flames liking out of windows as the corner of the building was targeted by the fire department, who seemed to have it mostly under control.

"Oh, that may be my fault," Clint admitted sheepishly.

"What? Half of Moscow's police force must be here,” Natasha hissed, pulling them against the building and out of sight. “The building is on fire. What exactly did you do?"

"I may have started a fire, and a gunfight. A loud gunfight, within earshot of some of the richest, most influential, and connected, and paranoid, people in this hemisphere. In my defense, I thought they got that first fire under control..."

“First? How many fires did you start exactly?” she was more amused than scolding. It didn’t look like anyone was hurt by the fire.

“Only two, which I feel is reasonable,” he complained, looking remarkably dejected. “The first was a distraction to get out of the ballroom, the second was to destroy the security hub that all of the video feeds were being routed to. All completely necessary.” Clint shifted, pushing on the wall to stand up straight but paled immediately, his knees buckling. His vision tunneled, black creeping in quickly around the edges, but he managed to stay conscious. Just barely.

Natasha rushed to catch him before he collapsed, bringing his arm back over her shoulders. "Alright, it’s alright," she murmured, not sure if he was listening. “I’ve got you, I've got you. Let’s go. Get you fixed up. Take a breather, okay?”

“He mumbled something undecipherable in reply, barely managing to keep on his feet without Natasha practically carrying him.

In all the chaos, they went unnoticed as they slipped away into the alley next to the building. Selecting a plain colored Toyota Infiniti, Natasha unlocked the doors and disabled the alarm. Clint collapsed into the passenger seat. At that point, he was barely staying conscious. Blood had begun to soak around his makeshift bandage.

Natasha glanced over at her partner. "Clint, just hang on, okay? Clint, you have to stay awake."

"Easier said than done," he murmured, eyes slipping closed, head lolling back against the seat. 

"I know, just- you know that you have to stay awake. Clint? Hey, come on. Clint? Stay with me damnit, you asshole. Clint?” Natasha threw the car into gear and streaked out of there. They needed to get somewhere that she could help him. 

Clint heard her, he did. Repeating his name, asking him, begging him really, to stay awake, to open his eyes. And he really wanted to. He didn’t like the sound of her voice, the, desperation, he guess he would call it. He didn’t ever want to hear her beg. He tried, and he did manage it a few times, but everything was foggy. The car raced through busy Moscow streets, everything flying by, but he wasn’t really seeing anything. His head was spinning. His body felt like it was made of lead. His eyelids had never felt heavier in his life. He wanted to, he really did, but he just couldn’t. 

It was like a heavy blanket was thrown over his consciousness, muffling and diming everything. The sounds, Natasha’s voice, all faded out first. Then the pain- every feeling really- drifted away. He was just numb. After some period of time unknown to him- could have been seconds, could have been hours- he was just gone, and everything melded together into black.


	20. Here's to Communication and Comforting

Reality had shifted. Clint felt himself materialize in a red haze, a world out of focus, not knowing up from down like gravity had abandoned him. He was waking up slowly, so very slowly, like he was swimming, fighting his way up from very deep waters. His senses, usually so keen, had betrayed him. Everything was muffled, muted, with only a rolling numbness across his entire body. He heard absolutely nothing- a terrifying sound. 

Gradually at first, a ringing began in his ears as the numbness started to fade, and he was thrust back into his broken shell of a body again, though, while feeling began to return, he only felt soreness. And then pain. 

Then, as if gravity had been multiplied, the world came crashing back to him all at once. No, crashing wasn't the right word. The drunken metro bus of reality had run him down and slammed into him at high speeds, dragging him beneath the wheels and leaving him mangled in the dust, only to reverse and back over him once more for good measure. 

That’s how he felt. 

The world was cruel.

Every part of him protested his return to consciousness. What started as a subtle ringing in his ears became louder until the white noise was all he could focus on. And boy did he have a headache that made the worst hangovers look like child’s play. But then just as quickly as the noise in his ears had overwhelmed him, the tide receded, and he felt once again whole. In pain, and ears still useless, but whole. He was awake.

A groan escape his lips, tearing at his raw throat, and his eyes fluttered open. He saw blurs, swirling through the fog that clouded around him, but his sight cleared quickly enough. A white surface. A smooth, white wall. No, a ceiling. That’s what it was. And he was lying on his back on something soft. A mattress. A bed. Alright. Could be worse. He knew one thing though; he was definitely alive, because dead men didn’t feel the kind of throbbing pain in his side that he felt.

He remembered the gunfire, the abuse his body took, the multiple near death situations, and the paralyzing, terrible fear- that’s all he could label it- that gripped him when he saw Natasha through the security feeds as the wave of memories came back to him. 

He flicked his eyes around the familiar room and saw he was back in the SHIELD safe-house, in one of the bedrooms. He realized he was shirtless, and barefoot, lying atop the covers. That was alright though; he felt just a little feverish, and the cool air felt nice. lifting his head up off the pillow was quite the task, but glancing down at his abdomen he saw that his side had been bandaged properly with clean white gauze. Good. He groaned as he moved to sit up, but suddenly Natasha appeared next to him and stopped him, pushing him back down gently. He flopped back into the bed without much encouragement.

She was signing something at him, hands moving, but he wasn’t quite completely with it yet, and wasn’t processing what she was telling him. He brought one of his hands up to his ear, fingers searching but not finding anything. He wasn’t wearing his aids. That explained why he couldn’t hear anything.

Natasha reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it gently to bring his attention back to her. She let go, and was signing again, though more slowly and deliberately.

‘I’ve got your aids.’ she explained, motioning to the bedside table before she continued signing. ‘Don’t move too much. Don’t sit up. Just stay put for a minute.’ Okay, he could do that. 

She sat down on the bed next to him, radiating concern- which she did more often than not when around him, given his track record of doing stupid things that seemed the right thing to do in the moment and getting hurt. As he recalled though, this, was not his fault. He didn’t know why she cared so much, given up to that point he had a 100% survival rate and she was oft to tell him he was a lost cause anyway. 

He let his eyes drift closed, and signed back on simple question with a brief gesture. ‘Bad?’

Forcing his eyes open a fraction, he watched her respond. ‘Surprisingly not. The bullet went right through you, soft tissue, nothing vital hit and no serious damage, but it tore through you pretty good, making quite a mess. It was bleeding too much, and we didn’t have time’ she paused, a small apologetic smile wavering across her features, guilt evident in her eyes. ‘I had to cauterize it.’ she signed. ‘Sorry. It’s going to scar.’ And hurt more, but she didn’t need to tell him that- he felt it. She lifted the gauze, carefully peeking under the bandage for signs of inflammation or infection.

That explained why it was throbbing so much. He waved it off though, a small indication to Natasha that he didn’t care, and certainly didn’t hold her choice of how she approached his life saving against her. ‘It’s fine. One more scar doesn’t matter. Just another mark with another story behind it.’ 

Some different, warm emotion wavered over her features- was that a new one? He’d seen it, slipping through the cracks of her cold mask more recently, though not often. Did people get new emotions? Ugh, he was still groggy, and his thoughts wouldn’t line up the right way.

‘Also, I think you have two fractured ribs. They aren’t too bad, and there isn’t much anyone can do about them anyway. They’ll heal with time, but you have a whole rainbow of bruising around here.’ She gently indicated to a patch of various shades of purple and green blossoming across his rib cage on one side, her fingers making a light trail down the soft crests of defined muscle and ribs around the bruised area. Her hand came to a stop, resting lightly, but a comfortable, warm weight on his chest. They were only feathery touches, hardly noticeable, but they seemed to be all that Clint’s rebelliously jumbled thoughts could focus on. 

He laughed- more an outburst of breath than anything- a smile playing across his face. Clint propped himself up on his elbows and got a better look at his injuries, grimacing at the bruising around his abused ribs. His headache was receding though, his thoughts organizing, and he felt more alert with every passing second. The pain wasn’t really too bad, and now that they were safe and together again, he wasn’t going to complain about. Yeah, he was gonna whine about it later when the healing got to the ‘itches like hell’ stage, but for now, he was content.

He motioned for her to hand him his hearing aids, and she complied. He adjusted them until they fit right. “How long’s it been?” Hearing his own voice, the first thing since he’d woken up, was an odd sensation. “And what happened?” 

"About two hours.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “ According to the news, there is some speculation that the fire was caused by the old gas lines. Most of the fire damage was to the basement. The news is saying some people died in the fire”- Clint tensed, dread welling up inside him- “but all of the bodies they pulled out were found in the basement. No one would have been down there but Vakhrov’s men, seeing as he had the place locked down so tightly,” she reassured. “Most of them were probably already dead, and if anything, the fire’s covering the tracks- for now at least, until they look closer. The fire is also being blamed for the damage and malfunctioning of the server, the internet in the area, and the subsequent power outage. All better than the truth for us, anyway. And it buys us time."

Clint nodded, relieved, mumbling his agreement. "What the hell do we do now, Tasha? I mean, Vakhrov is still out there, and whoever his source inside SHIELD is too. Yeah, we got rid of the launch codes, but technically, what we set out to do isn’t done yet. But then, all of this was unofficial anyway. So is this it? Do we come in know, and leave the rest for SHIELD to sort out? Or- hell, I don’t know."

She chewed on her lip, thinking. “At this point, given that the immediate danger of those launch codes being sold and put to use has been neutralized, I think we need to contact Fury. See where he’s at on his hunt for the leak, and then we see where we’re at, and make a decision.”

“We get through to the Director’s private secured line, we should be alright, location still uncompromised,” he agreed.

He pushed himself back along the bed to a sitting position, at the back of his mind regretting how Natasha’s hand fell away when she pulled both her hands into her lap, missing the contact. He leaned back against the headboard. 

"You okay, Nat?" He reached out and ever so gently brushed over her own developing bruise on her jaw and the small cut there with the pad of his thumb, holding her gently, not a foot apart, for just a moment before he withdrew. His eyes said more than his words though, in their own silent language. It was his turn to show concern.

She took a breath, almost shakily. “I'll be alright, really, but you scared the shit out of me. Don't you ever do that again,” she added, looking him in the eye.

“Right, I'll try not to, promise,” he returned, smiling again. The adorable frown and disapproving crinkle of her eyebrows returned. 

"I'm being serious, damn it." And she meant it, but then he gave her that kicked puppy, faux insulted look, and damnit, then she was fighting a smile back and loosing. 

He had that effect on her. Rather than let him see her smile when she was trying to be mad at him, she rolled her eyes and leaned over and into him, one arm wrapping around his uninjured side, her other elbow hooking around the joint of his shoulder and neck, her embrace lax. She readjusted on the bed, tucking her knees up while shifting to sit snugly besides Clint against the headboard, practically halfway sprawled over his chest. It could only be described as a hug, or maybe snuggling and hugging, but Natasha didn’t do either of those things. 

But it wasn’t like he minded or anything- he was more into the whole ‘actually making human contact’ thing than she was. In fact, thinking about it, Natasha didn’t ever touch anyone unless she was fighting them or conning a mark. She shied away from people when they got too close for her comfort; even the little things like bumping shoulders, brushing past people, comforting gestures she seemed to avoid. Except, he mused, for when it came to him. Well, he put that down to the fact that he was pretty sure he was the only person she actually trusted to have her back, and the situations they worked in often required them to be in close proximity anyway.

She shifted against him, clinging tighter, tucking her head into his shoulder. "Ouch," he mumbled into her hair at her readjustment.

"Sorry," she said automatically, and went to withdraw from him but he hooked his arms around her, stopping her tactical retreat.

"S’okay.” He sighed contentedly, eyes drifting closed. Whatever this was, it was new, a little weird, but a good weird. It was nice. They didn’t have to say anything, but it wasn’t an awkward silence by any means. But then she was talking.

“You’re not allowed to die.” It was a simple statement, quietly spoken, not even asking of a response, but, it struck him. Her tone was hollow. She sounded… like she was hurting. He didn’t like it.

“I know.” He nuzzled into her hair, bowing his head down into her shoulder. “I try not to.”

“No,” she stated firmly, sharply, louder. “You say that, but you’re reckless. You try to help too much and you put yourself in situations where you get hurt and you act like it’s alright, like you’re invincible, but it’s not alright because one day you’re going to get yourself killed,” she finished her rant sharply, straightening up, pulling away from him and looking him in the eye. 

Oh. Shit did she look like he’d personally hurt her. Her jaw was set tight, eyes gleaming, condemning and angry and concerned, and something else, all at once. He found himself for the first time in a long time unable to meet her gaze, and dropped his eyes, looking down and away, feeling ashamed and confused and all tied up inside. 

“Nat…” He bit his lip, not knowing what to say. “It’s-”

“Don’t you dare say it’s the job. Don’t you fucking dare,” she snarled, enunciating her words by jabbing his sternum with a condemning finger. “Because it’s not. You know, from the beginning you tended to get hurt a lot. But they were accident. Or things you couldn’t control. But at least, at least you recognized what went wrong, and why, and didn’t brush it off like it was apt to happen anyway! But you know when that really changed, Clint? When New York happened. When Loki happened.”

Clint’s breath caught in his throat, flinching visibly when she said that- his- name. He still couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact, remaining frozen under her steely glare.

“And I’m not in a million years saying what happened, to you, to anyone, was your fault. I’m not. And you know what? I blame myself. I blame myself, because when I got you back, when you finally got out of it, I was ready to jump right back in, and I pulled you in with me because you had my back, and you wouldn’t let me go by myself.”

She paused, and while he didn’t look at her, he could imagine what she looked like, how she looked, angry and sad- she sounded so very sad. But he couldn’t bring himself to move, to comfort her, to do anything. He felt cold all of the sudden, paralyzed, even his thoughts frozen in place. And he could remember. All of it, coming back to him unbidden and unwelcome, He could see him, hear that voice in his head. Goddamnit, why wouldn’t it just go away.

But then, there was Natasha again. Voice softer this time, pulling him close. She was warm, soft, familiar, safe- everything those memories weren’t. “You were right, you know, When you said that we weren’t soldiers. That it wasn’t our fight. It wasn’t our place to stand up next to gods and monsters and super soldiers- us against the world. I dragged you back into that mess, because I couldn’t let go of everything I’d done, and I wanted to somehow make it right, but I didn’t stop to think of what you’d done.”

A few moments of silence passed. Clint swallowed hard, focused on calming his breathing and heartrate which he hadn’t realized had accelerated. “Nat,” he began, stopping again, Damnit, why were the words so hard? “You didn’t… didn’t force me into anything, that I- didn’t want to do. I wanted- needed- to- do something. Make it right. The only way I knew how. Not your fault, Nat. Not your fault.”

She was against him again, hugging him tightly and burying her face in his shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. But how was I to know when afterwards, you didn’t say anything. I know SHIELD had you locked up for a bit, and I know it wasn’t anyone’s place to make you talk about anything that soon after, but you disappeared Clint! You pulled away, packed up, and vanished for a week! Then you came back and it was like nothing had ever happened! Kate had to come ask me what happened to you, and where you went. I didn’t even know what to tell her…” 

“I’m not blaming you for that. You did what you had to do, and it’s probably similar to what I would have done in your place. But it’s almost been two years, and you still can’t even say his name. You still blame yourself. You know how I know? Because I found that file of yours with the information of every SHIELD agent that died on the helicarrier that day. 

You know, the one in the box beneath your floorboards back at your apartment?”

He felt numb. She knew exactly what to say to make his defenses crumble. There was nothing he could say. There was nothing he needed to say. 

“It’d be hypocritical of me to tell you to let go of the past. Some shit- some shit happens that you just can’t let go of. Maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe we remember so we can do everything we can to make up for it in the future. But getting yourself killed? Punishing yourself? That’s not making anything right again. It was Loki who deserves that- he was the one who gave the order and pulled the trigger, you were just his weapon of choice-”

“I still did it Nat! It was still me!” He was yelling now, pushing her off of him. “What am I supposed to say, how am I supposed to feel, when I remember everything! And you act like I didn’t have a choice, everyone acts like I didn’t have a choice, like I was some passive observer riding shotgun inside my own head, but damnit I wanted to-” Clint’s rage died as fast as it had boiled over. Head and shoulders slumping, he brought up his knees and hugged them to his chest. Natasha wanted to cry at how broken he looked. “I wanted to do everything he said, Nat. There were orders, and I didn’t think twice about following them. That’s all there was. Orders, instructions, a goal. And nothing else mattered. I wasn’t even- I didn’t even fight it.” His voice broke at the end, trailing off. “I could have fought it.”

Natasha was shocked at his outburst. Not because he yelled, or because it was sudden, but because it was the most sentences he’d ever strung together about what happened. And it hurt, so unbelievably much, to see him like that. Small, shattered, nothing but self-loathing.

“No. You couldn’t have. Gods and magic and monsters, Clint. We’re just- you’re just a guy. And when gods, people with genetically engineered super powers, people with near invincible armor and weapons, and aliens, all stood up to go to war, we stood up with them. That’s saying a lot.”

She was talking so softly, like any word or raised tone may break him completely. Ever so slowly and gently, she moved in close again and wrapped her arms around him, her head resting on his shoulder. 

“Since New York, you’ve been throwing yourself into danger like it’s your only business. You try to save everyone, try to help as much as you can; I know what it’s like to want to pay back a debt, lives saved for lives lost, lives taken… You know that I do. But no matter how many people you help, you’ll never feel like it’s enough, because that’s not the type of person you are.”

Clint huffed, a bitter laugh interrupting her. “And just what kind of person am I, Nat? What kind of person does what I do? Look around, Nat.”

“Someone who wants to help- to make things better. Someone with the ability to help, and who doesn’t stand aside because it’s easy, or safe, or not his problem. Like I said, your problem is that you try to help too much. And it’s gonna get you killed. Me too probably, because you know I’ll die dragging your sorry ass out of trouble.” She was smiling now- he could tell in her voice.

He leaned back against the headboard again, letting go of his knees, and Natasha filled the gap, snuggling in close, comforting, not willing to let go. 

“Don’t say that, Tasha.” He looked at her, imploring. But that was okay, because the hurting was draining away. He looked tired though, exhausted really, physically and emotionally.

“What? That I’ll always have your back, or that I’ll die trying?” There was a joking edge to her voice.

“Don’t joke about that,” he insisted, but his eyes were bright, and there was the faintest smile there. “I mean it. You think you get to lecture me about not dying and calculated risk taking-” She snorted at the word ‘calculated’, rolling her eyes- “but you get to joke about that? I don’t think so. Believe me, if you get yourself killed because you’re trying to pull me out of the fire, I will be beyond pissed. If ghosts can haunt other ghosts, I’ll do that, I swear.”

“Alright. Then we can haunt Stark together,” she smirked, earning her a laugh from her partner.

“Yeah, okay, sounds like a plan.” He smiled fondly, wrapping his arms around her, hands resting easily at her sides. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, eyes closing, just breathing in and out, in and out. 

“Clint?”

“Mhhhm?” 

“I’m sorry I brought it up, made you talk about it. It’s not fair. But, it had to be said.”

He sighed, feeling tired again. “S’okay, Nat. You’re probably right, anyway.” She hugged him tighter, and he didn’t care that it ached. 

“What are you talking about? I’m always right.”

He smiled- that was his Natasha. “Mhhhm,” he agreed. And without thinking anything of it, simply said, “You know I love you, right?” 

It fell of the tongue easily, feeling right. Because he did love her- he didn’t know exactly how, or what it all entailed, but she was one of, if not his only, best, closest friend. He couldn’t imagine a life without her. So yeah, it felt right.

She tensed, only by the slightest, but it was enough to concern him, to make him dread if he’d done something wrong by saying that, but it was only for a second. She relaxed again, and he felt her breathe out against his neck, a gentle puff of air.

“Yeah, I know.” And he smiled, because that was Natasha speak for ‘I love you, too’.

They stayed that way, curled tight around each other sitting on that bed for what must have been an hour. At some point, Clint began to fall asleep. He was tired; hemorrhaging will do that to you, and it was around 1 in the morning. However, he really wanted a shower, and a change of clothes, so they disentangled themselves.

After that, Clint collapsed back into bed. Natasha was nowhere to be seen. As heavy as his limbs felt, and as much as he wanted to sleep, he was having difficulty resigning himself to closing his eyes. He stared at the ceiling. Thoughts, memories, frozen images- they all whirled around inside his head. What Natasha had said, what he said, had brought up things he had forced down, and kept down, for a long time. Doubts, fears, panic, pain, all mingled together. If he closed his eyes, surely the nightmares would come back. Those vivid playbacks, that voice- his damn voice inside his head- but more than that, the faces, looking into the eyes of the people he killed- the SHIELD agents, the innocents who died in New York and who haunted him for months afterward… surely they would all come rushing back, overwhelming, restricting, condemning. 

When the door opened, he honestly couldn’t even bring himself to be surprised when Natasha came in and crawled under the sheets after him, curling up on her side and burrowing into the mattress and sheets besides him. She probably knew- of course she knew. They all had nightmares about what they’d done and seen. Her back was to him, and there was nothing like the previous contact between them, but her presence was comforting.

Clint pushed all of those invading memories down, not violently smothering them as usual, but compartmentalizing. He set them aside, everything in neat boxes in his head for him to sort through later… or never. He would figure that part out when he got to it. For now, there was nothing he could do, so he let it be.

He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	21. Here's to Finishing the Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is completely unrelated to this chapter, but I kinda wanna know what made you guys read this fic in the first place. What in the summary hooked you, what in the tags caught your attention, or what made you read past the first chapter? Just curious, but seriously, comment and tell me!
> 
> Thanks!

He was drifting peacefully through the murky waters that lay between sleep and consciousness; it was the sort of haze in which he was aware of his surroundings and even the fact that he was asleep on some level, but he hadn’t quite shaken the alluring tug that kept him from opening his eyes. It was quiet, calm, warm, secure. He was sprawled out comfortably on his side, his head resting atop a pillow and his arm shoved beneath it, his knees drawn up slightly so his body was loosely cradling the second pillow to his chest. Not even the little paranoid voice at the back of his mind that made him question every seemingly safe encounter was bugging him... That was, until the pillow he had an arm thrown over and was clutching loosely to his chest was abruptly ripped away from him and he was hit none too gently in the face with it. 

He jolted upright, sitting ramrod straight and on high alert, a six inch combat knife from under his pillow in hand as he did so. However, any secondary assault he was expecting didn’t come. Natasha was the only other person in the room. Having thrown herself down, she was currently lounging in an armchair across from the bed along the wall, legs crossed at the ankle over one arm rest, dressed in civvies and looking like she had been up for hours. 

She sighed dramatically, looking unimpressed, though Clint could only tell from her body language because whatever it was she muttered as she rolled her eyes at him was too low for him to hear without his aids, which he did not sleep in, ever, because it is a terrible idea. (Whenever he did it accidentally from, like, falling asleep on the couch while marathoning Dog Cops. he woke to his ears feeling hot and sticky and what he imagined waterlogged must feel like- just gross a hundred time over- and had to use his BTEs for that day to compensate.) Having swept the room automatically and found there to be no real threat, his mind was just catching up with the reflexive movement of his body, and took a breath, swallowing down the thumping of his heart. Well, he was awake. 

Weird how they did that… If he had been between assignments, sleeping in at his apartment and someone had thrown a pillow at him, he probably wouldn’t have even woken up. But that was Clint Barton- the guy who never woke up before 11:00 AM, who marathoned Dog Cops with Kate into the early hours of the morning, who lived off of pizza and cereal and who, when he wasn’t an absolute mess, actually had his shit together. But right now, he was Agent Barton, Hawkeye, a guy who looked twice around every corner, and for him, there was always a present and real threat. 

Clint blinked a few times, leaning over to set the blade down on the bedside table while snagging the hearing aids he had left there last night. He shoved them in and flopped backwards onto the bed, spread eagle over the tangled sheet and blankets and pillows. He stretched, back arching off the bed, arms far back over his head- or at least he tried to, until the stabbing sensation in his side reminded him that he had been shot and subsequently cauterized, and thus should not exert himself in such a way. He relented with a grunt, and luckily, the pain lessened to a dull throb that he could easily enough ignore. 

“Wha’ was that for, Nat?” He pulled a pillow over his face, both of his arms resting over top of it.

“Time to wake up. It’s 10 o’clock. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.” He heard her, muffled only a little through the pillow. 

Clint didn’t move, just made a long, drawn out groan in protest to the notion of moving.

“Come on, yastreb. Up an at ‘em. All hands on deck. Let’s go.” Natasha’s tone was light, playful, not at all indicating there was actual cause to make haste. The fact she had let him sleep in that long spoke to this as well.

Clint pulled the pillow away, and seeing she was now standing at the end of the bed, he threw it at her. While his aim was perfect, per the usual, she easily sidestepped the slow moving projectile with grace, frowning disapprovingly. He dropped his head back down, closing his eyes.

“Why do you call me that… yastreb,” Clint muttered, not really asking, but just kind of saying it.

“Because you are.” She sat down heavily on the edge of the bad which Clint felt by the dip, not by opening his eyes and seeing her do so.

“I know what it means. Hawk. Haha, I get it. Not like I call you anythin’ for ‘spider’ or shit.” He rolled over, tugging the sheets and blankets up over him as he curled up on his side, not able to get comfortable again.

“Well ‘pauk’ doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily, and it’s such an ugly word. You are also not Russian, so it would be a gross overstep on your part. Cultural misappropriation. Which is why you will never call me that under pain of severe overreaction on my part- but mostly because it sounds gross. I, however, have full license to the Russian language, and thus, you will always be my yastreb. Understand? Vy ponimayete?” 

He grumbled non distinctly. She was altogether too chipper this late morning for his liking. And while that unwelcome yet short lived adrenaline rush had made the chances of going back to sleep impossible- and they still had a job to do, couldn’t sleep all day, even if he was recuperating- he was damn well going to complain about it and mope in bed for the next few minutes at least. 

While Clint had his eyes closed tight against the light she flicked on and had his face unceremoniously shoved into his sheets, Natasha, besides him, gave his injuries a close inspection, wary of any signs of infection, or that anything at all was amiss. It was easy, given that he hadn’t worn a shirt to bed. She gently peeled back the gauze and tape on his upturned side, earning her a muffled- was that a whimper?- when she probed and prodded at the tender flesh around his wound. 

“Be quiet, you big baby.” She noted the bruising around his ribs looked even worse, but that was to be expected- there was now a lot more green in the mix, which only meant it was healing. She pressed on his ribs, right on top of the worst of the bruising, and he jerked away from her, complaining loudly.

“Jesus, Nat! That hurts.”

“Obviously. But good news, nothing broken,” she said with a bright smile, not that he was looking.

He rolled flat on his back, taking the sheets with him over his face grumpily in childish protest. “Yeah, no shit Tash, but they still, fucking, hurt.”

“Aww, want me to kiss it better?” she mocked, voice patronizing, the face she was making even more so. Clint peeked out from beneath the covers suspiciously, eyes narrowing.  
“Hmmph, bite me’s more like it.”

She gasped, all faux surprise and aghast. “I would never.” She shifted suddenly, mockery into feline predatory mischievousness, and raised an eyebrow. “Unless you asked nicely. Very kinky, but I don’t shame…”

He snorted, hitting her with a pillow which she wrestled from him and shoved back over his face. He wasn’t inclined to move it anytime soon, instead, simply went lax again, lying flat on his back, throwing his arms dramatically back over the pillow she had smothered him with. 

She smiled, shaking her head from where she sat cross-legged besides her partner. It was moments like this that she wished could last forever; there was no danger, just the two of them, atmosphere light and breezy. Even if Clint was injured and healing, he was fine now- really it had only been a concerning injury when it was bleeding out of control.  
Everything was fine. Good, actually.

Natasha’s eyes wandered from the injury at her partner’s side up the smooth planes of his chest, gaze sliding along the lines of well defined muscle quite shamelessly as Clint was still hiding beneath the pillow. Smooth expanses and ridges of hard, tan muscle, occasionally marred by light, silvery scars that danced over his skin. While some people may have found them to be flaws, blemishes, unappealing, marking him as damaged, Natasha found that they seemed to make him complete. Each one told a story, reminiscent of trials he had survived, challenges he had overcome. They were a time line and a map. Clint could identify each one and give a place, a date, an assignment, and an explanation as to how exactly it was not his fault for each one, just as she could for her own. They were the story of his life… meaningful, and she knew that, given the option between simply making them all vanish and keeping every last blemish, he would choose the latter. 

Considering the meaningful nature of the scars that scattered his chest and arms quickly became something else though as she admired his semi-naked form. There was a lot to admire though, from a purely biological, evolutionary, entirely straightforward perspective, of course. There was no point in denying that his broad shoulders, corded with muscle from archery, narrowing down his washboard abdomen to his hips, his sweatpants riding sinfully low, muscles forming a pleasing v shape- okay, that’s enough. Nope.

The point is, everything was fine, perfect even, and Natasha just wished it would stay that way. She’d even had the (mostly one-sided) conversation she’d been avoiding, fearing, but needing to have with him the night before, and their friendship had come out undamaged (she had really been afraid that he would pull away and go cold again like he had before). She just wanted to freeze that moment.

Of course, it wouldn’t stay that way. They were still in Moscow, safe-house or not. They still had an international arms dealer to track down. And, she should probably get around to telling her partner about what she’d been up to that morning regarding that front, shouldn’t she…

“Clint,” she said, seriousness returning. “You know we’re not done yet. We’re still on a deadline. Really, time to get up.”

He pushed the pillow and blankets aside and propped himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, I know, I got it. But-” he frowned, tilting his head to the side. “I know we haven’t got all day, but what deadline exactly have we established?”

“Well, we have new information now.”

“Okay, well not that I was aware of. From where, and when?” Clint sat up straight against the headboard, sheets pooling around his waist.

“This morning-”

“Nat?”

“- I went out-”

“Tasha.” Disapproval. 

“-located a landline phone, possibly one of the only working pay phones left in this city-” 

“You what?” Frustration. He was talking on top of her now. “This morning? You went out alone-”

“-to get a secure connection to SHIELD. Plus, anyone managing a back-trace would only-”

“-into the city, left me here? Way to-”

“-be directed to the city’s mainline, so no danger there. I got-”

“-break the rules of the buddy system there, partner. The system- now the system is there for a reason, ya know.”

“-through to Fury, and we had a chat.” She was finished, but he was not.

“Safety. Someone to watch your back. Especially when, oh I don’t know, we’re only in a city on the other side of the globe, cut off from SHIELD, being hunted down by an international arms dealer, maybe the police by now, and someone inside our own damn organization is trying to find us, and you decide to head out on your own without even waking me up? What if something had happened? Hmm? You think of that? Not cool, Natasha.”

“Are you done?”

“Yes.” He crossed his arms, scowling at her.

“I’m sorry for leaving on my own.” She waited for a response in words or body language from her partner, but there was no change. “I’m sorry I left you without saying anything- even if it was because you really needed the rest.” Still nothing. “It won’t happen again.”

He snorted, annoyed, but his posture slumped and he gave in. “It would be great if, ya know, you tried not to lie, directly, to my face.”

“Where would you prefer me to lie to?” She smiled, but he did not.

“Nat.” He was not amused. 

“Alright, I am sorry that I felt it was a better idea than waking you up and dragging you with me, almost dead as you were yesterday. But I would probably do it again.”

He sighed, accepting this. “Okay. Fine.” He knew there would be no changing her mind- she was stubborn when it came to things like this. “What’d you get from Fury?”

“From what he told me in our rather brief conversation, it seems Fury and Hill made progress on isolating the leak in SHIELD. A year back, there was a series of unapproved weapons transfers from SHIELD facilities that had inexplicably gone missing. Paper trails were covered, and the fact that the weapons deliveries never arrived didn’t raise any red flags because they weren’t supposed to be sent anyway. Now, a separate SHIELD op focused in on this, and that’s how our friendly neighborhood weapons dealer Vakhrov got on SHIELD’s radar. The SHIELD team put on the case to investigate once people realized what was happening thought that he was responsible- obviously- but it wasn’t until a while later, which was a few months ago, that someone questioned if an agent inside SHIELD was aiding in the thefts. That someone was Moreau- you know Moreau, right?”

“Yeah, of course. I thought he was on leave though, lucky bastard." Clint and Natasha had worked with Agent Moreau before on multiple assignments before when they needed backup from an incursion team, as he was one of the handful of field agents with a high enough clearance and a portfolio or experience that were classified as strike team leaders. Technically, but only technically, Clint and Natasha were as well, but lord knows they didn’t work well with anyone else, and they didn’t work at all with some people, so they were typically never put in charge of a team.

Clint had led a team into combat a few times, and it had always gone well enough, but generally he avoided it. Natasha, on the other hand, didn't just avoid being stuck as team leader for assignments, but the agents composing the different teams fought among themselves to avoid being placed under her command. The reason they both avoided it, however, was because of what the incursion teams did, which just wasn't how the two operate. The incursion teams were sent around to complete quick and brutal hard entry assaults on whatever their target was. Usually they were for retrieval purposes, sometimes they were for hits if the mark had barricaded him or herself away inside a fortified compound, as they occasionally were known to do, but that was all there was to it. It was risky, and not at all interesting.

“Well, he apparently brought it up these concerns with Fury, who, as a precaution in the case that Vakhrov did have someone inside SHIELD on his payroll, put the word out that he was on extended leave to avoid suspicion, and kept his investigation off the books entirely.”

Clint was about to interrupt with a question when Natasha stopped him with a pointed look. “Just let me finish. Recently, Fury and Hill connected the dots between Moreau’s investigation and everything they were looking into based on our information to hunt out the mole in SHIELD. And, well, they found him, or were getting very close and would within the hour.” Natasha looked a little sheepish. “That’s, ah, right about the time I ran out of rubles,” she admitted, referencing the Russian coin currency. “But, before then, Fury said he was sending Moreau down here with an incursion team. We’re to meet them when they touch down at Vnukovo International Airport just outside the city.”

Clint and Natasha liked and trusted Moreau well enough, and for Natasha, that was more than most, but the fact that an incursion team was headed to meet them concerned Clint, no matter who was leading it, even if backup was something they had sorely needed, because 1) as explained, they did tactical assaults on hard entry targets, and as of yet Clint saw no evidence that’s something they needed, and 2) were they not purposefully going dark, cutting all links to SHIELD in order to prevent the mole from leaking anything more on their location or progress to Vakhrov?

“They’re not coming in dark like we did?”

“They have clearance, and SHIELD has them booked as a private charter out of Montreal. They touch down in,” she glanced at the clock, “four and a half hours. We need to meet them on the tarmack. And then, apparently, there’s a chopper lined up for us.” Ah. see how easy it is when you’ve got SHIELD providing cover and resources?

“And Moreau and his team have been cleared?” It would be terribly ironic if one of them turned out to be the leak.

“Fury vetted Moreau extensively, and SHIELD wouldn’t have even been onto the leak if Moreau hadn’t looked into it in the first place. And his team, well, Fury said they were all too new to upper level clearances to have been providing Vakhrov with information all this time.”

“Awesome. Our backup consists of infants.” Clint threw the sheets off him and slid his legs off the edge of the bed, propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. “And, why exactly do we need an incursion team in the first place? And if they don’t get here for another four and a half hours, then why did you choose to wake me up now, exactly?” He turned to look at her, questioning.

“We have a location on Vakhrov. He ran to a warehouse complex he owns on the outskirts of the industrial sector of the city. It’s probably one of his drop spot for his import and export of munitions; he’s turned it into a bunker, essentially. Not going to be easy to extract him, hence, the incursion team.”

Clint let out an exasperated breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, throwing his hands up. “Of course he did. And how, pray tell, did we learn this?”

“SHIELD may have momentarily hijacked a CIA satellite that was directed over Moscow last night while I filled Fury in and then it was simply a matter of pulling out the surveillance feed from last night and following him.”

It was scary how far modern intelligence gathering had gone. There were enough covert intelligence service satellites from various countries orbiting the Earth to provide an aerial view of practically any location, at any date and time. And that was only the covert ones; in a pinch, there were plenty of others, like the Canadian forestry GIS mapping satellite they had once utilized to find an Ex Mossad operative that was heading a terrorist cell out of a shed in the North Cascade Mountains. But that’s a story for another time.

“Wait, hold on, you told Fury about that? Last night with the fire, and the, thing? Aww, Nat, no. He’s gonna be so pissed at me- that’s way too much paperwork. And that’s exactly the type of international incident he complains we’re prone to all the time.”

She smiled, shaking her head at him. “Relax, I only gave him the absolutely necessary details; it’s not like we had time for a full debrief or anything.”

“Okay, good. And when this is all over, I expect you to have my back in saying that was not my fault.”

“Alright, I’ll add that to your tab as well.” She reached out and tousled his already sticking-up-every-which-way hair as she rose from the bed and headed for the door as he grumbled his thanks. “So in answer to your second question, we’re going to scout out the warehouse and form an extraction plan before they get here. That means, time to get up, yastreb.” She was smiling fondly.

“Okay. got it.” Clint grabbed hold of the bed post as he slid off the edge of the bed to his feet, standing slowly and cautiously in case of lightheadedness or tunnel vision like from when you stand up too quickly. However, he was steady on his feet, and his side didn’t hurt anything more than he could ignore. Good.

Natasha, who had been sticking around to jump in if he passed out or something upon standing, slipped from the room to allow him to change. 

Clint grabbed a change of clothes. Taking after Natasha, he put on a regular civilian clothing, though keeping in mind combat readiness: t-shirt, his favorite black leather jacket, jeans, combat boots. Putting on the shirt and jacket was a little difficult, but other than that the pain was becoming more manageable.

He took a look in the mirror, running a hand through his hair until it looked at least somewhat controlled. Besides the moderate bruise on his jaw, he didn't look all that bad, he decided.

When he walked through the door into living room area, he saw Natasha perched on the edge of the sofa cleaning a gun. Without looking up, she asked, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, let’s go…”

They packed lightly; assorted handguns with silencers and daggers (they didn’t plan on needing to use them at all, but they never left home without them), the scope from a high powered rifle, minus the rifle, some rope and grappling hooks, a digital camera with long range zoom capacity (very helpful), comms for communication purposes, and each with a notebook and pen to record details and sketch hasty diagrams where needed- all basic material for active surveillance and mapping in preparation for an hard tactical incursion. You couldn’t simply run in, guns blazing- that’s a good way to get killed. Planning is key. 

A half hour drive out of the city into the industrial side, which consisted mostly of warehouses, factories, and construction yards, and a twenty minute trek from where they hid their car, slipping around unnoticed through abandoned looking warehouses and loading wharfs later, and they had their target in sights. 

That was how they found themselves sprawled across the filthy, soot and grime covered flat concrete roof of a four story warehouse across from Vakhrov’s warehouse complex turned bunker with a massive security overhaul, a gravel road and a football field’s length of open ground between them. There was a shallow lip around the edge of their perch that, coupled with the height, hid them well from the cameras and security personnel patrolling the compound- which Clint would refer to it as because’ warehouse’ certainly didn’t cover it and ‘bunker’ suggested it was less of a fucking fortress, which it most definitely was. 

The yard was fenced in with razor wire tipped chain link fencing mounted on top of a roughly meter high concrete wall that also served as an elevated walkway for the bulletproof vest wearing, automatic weapon carrying guards walking around the inside of it. Clint narrowed his eyes, looking closer. Where they…? Yep. All of them had comms. Military grade. He could see the wires spiralling down to disappear under their collars. He counted a dozen of them- each in pairs, six making rounds along the fence, two more at each of the two entrances to the compound, and the final two at the front gate. The compound itself was rigged with all sorts of security measures; there were cameras at every door and corner with fairly wide coverage of the yard and security perimeter. The doors themselves looked like they were steel reinforced, they had key pads next to them, and flood lights with what he assumed were motion detectors over them. No doubt plenty of alarms would sound if anyone messed with any of the lights, cameras, doors, or keypads, and a veritable army of all sorts of special forces washouts would be quick to swarm.

Yeah, this was exactly the type of situation that called for an incursion team. 

Natasha set about taking pictures of the guards, the doors and various security measures, the general structure of the compound itself, the fencing and retainer walls, the front gate, as well as the various sources of cover between the compound and surrounding buildings- some construction equipment to the East side, the nearby neighboring warehouse that had a low roof only ten meters from the fencing around the perimeter, the corner of the building they were perched on that was a story below them that would make a good sniper perch, having good cover from the ground, easy access via the ladder ascending along the side of the building out of the line of sight, and the sun behind it later in the day.

While she did this, Clint began sketching out crude blueprints of the layout of the yard and compound, distances (which he was very acute at judging) from fence to compound and distances to various surrounding buildings and things that may provide cover. While they stayed there for maybe an hour and a half, he also took note of guard rotations and patrol paths. Because no doubt they would not be able to get access to the construction blueprints of the compound itself, this was the best they would be able to manage, but while it wasn’t perfect, it was a lot more than nothing.

After a while, they shuffled along the rooftops and moved between adjacent buildings, slipping between shadows and staying well out of sight as they maneuvered to a position that gave them a visual of the backside of the compound. Another half hour there, and they were confident they had everything that could help them. Surveillance was the easy part though. Now, they had to turn raw information into a workable plan to penetrate, locate, and extract their target. Luckily they would not being doing this alone.

They slipped away just as they had come, silently, unnoticed, everything going according to plan. They found their car in the same place they had left it with just enough time to get to the airport on schedule to meet their backup when they touch down. 

When everything went according to plan, there was nothing easier. There was no rush, no panic, to need to improvise or go off script, and no danger. On a good day, Clint and Natasha could pull off an entire operation in an afternoon. On a bad day though, like they had been having recently, well… that’s quite different. That’s how people get hurt.

Clint really hoped their luck would hold. They were so close to finishing this. Penetrate, locate, extract. Then they would organize an extraction team to pick them up, and they would be gone, without a trace. Tomorrow, he could be back chilling with Kate on the roof of his apartment building again. Maybe he would take Lucy to the park. Who knows, just anything but here.

But, knowing his luck, that was a lot of wishful thinking. In their line of work.... well, people usually didn’t plan too far ahead.


	22. Here's to Elephants in the Room

Clint leaned idly against the thin metal sheeting that made up the external walls of the private hangar. The airport itself was large, an average size as international airports go, passenger planes roaring through the air in takeoff or landing every 30 minutes or so, however the smaller hangar used mostly for what looked like storage of fuel trucks, plane caddies, and various other vehicles where he and Natasha were waiting was in the far corner. There were dozens of landing strips and the hangar for private jets separating the massive main hub and the general populace from them in their secluded corner. 

The afternoon sun shone brightly overhead, though it was filtered pleasantly through the shades Clint stole from the last SUV they had borrowed. Did Natasha give him the ‘I can’t believe I’m stuck with you as my partner’ disappointed head shake look when he did? Yes. Did that dissuade him? No. Hey, they were a nice pair of sunglasses, and they made him look ten times cooler and super secret agent-y; he knew this to be fact- he checked in the side view mirror. Clint sighed loudly, checking his wrist for the time on a watch he wasn’t wearing and then tossing his head back dramatically into the wall behind him, the sheet metal rattling slightly against its frames.

“Don’t do that, Clint. You don’t have the brain cells to spare,” came Natasha’s voice from besides him, causing him to flinch, and even though he covered quickly by shifting his stance and recrossing his arms, she noticed. “Keeping watch? Or falling asleep over here?”

After ten minutes of waiting for the inbound jet, Natasha had gone to sweep the perimeter. It was habit, and really just something to do while they waited; Clint had mastered patience from years of sitting on rooftops for hours on end, waiting for marks to turn up, but Natasha preferred to be on the move, and she would get jittery after too long (which, ask anyone, wasn’t long at all). 

“I am watching, Nat- I’m watching a lot of nothing. And I may be deaf, but I don’t think a freaking jet is gonna be able to sneak up on me. And as you well know,” he swiveled to face her, tilting his head down to give her a condemning glare over the sunglasses, “you, Natasha, are the only one who has ever snuck up on me, and I damn well think you do it on purpose.”

“Face it. I’m just better than you.” She smiled prettily, taking up position besides him leaning against the wall in the sliver of shade offering reprieve from the unrelenting sun, ankles and arms crossed. 

He snorted, rolling his eyes. This was a common debate slash argument slash sore point between them, and everyone back at HQ knew well to step between them on it or take a side was a suicide mission. “At what, sneakin’ around? Stabbin’ people in the back? Sure, but in actual, important, skills, like, I don’t know, marksmanship? I’ll beat you anyday, by a long shot.”

“Ha, with a stick and string from the paleolithic era, maybe.”

“Bullshit an’ you know it. I may not like guns but I sure as hell know how to use ‘em. Give me any of your little toys, and then we’ll see if you’re still smiling.”

Natasha’s face darkened, eyes narrowing. “When we get back, you,” she poked him in the chest with a condemning finger, “me, guns, range.”

“Usual wager?” 

They often decided to tussle out whatever petty argument of the week they had going on- some of which ranged from who was better at Mario Kart (Clint won, barely, but then Thor kicked both their asses), to who could get Steve to go on the longest rant about something freedoms, civil rights, or justice related (Natasha was winning when she said she wouldn’t vote, Clint one-upped her when he had Steve convinced he never payed taxes, like ever, but then Natasha won when she ‘explained’ why the US should kick out immigrants and close the borders to people from the Middle East, which was a very dirty move, and had Steve yelling until he was blue in the face about how absurd that was and how Natasha herself was an immigrant), to even who could convince the most fresh SHIELD Academy recruits that Fury was actually a cyborg (that, that had ended badly- they were damn convincing, and boy did that rumor spread until it got to the man himself and somehow he knew exactly who started it, but Clint was pretty sure the yelling and paperwork they were punished with was just about the principle of the thing, and he actually didn’t mind the rumor itself). 

The ‘usual wager’ given to the winner was exactly one, no questions asked, no refusals, no back out options, no telling anyone, favor, which was incredibly useful. The only limitation? No killing or maiming, and nothing that would get them fired, disowned or disavowed, or put them in danger beyond ‘acceptable means agreed upon by both parties’. They had someone from the legal department draft a contract with their oversight. It was legally binding, not that either would dare renege- they had reputations to uphold, after all.

“Of course,” she agreed, and the matter was settled for now. 

An inbound jet, now visible on the horizon over the building line, caught their eyes. “That them?” Clint asked, peering over his sunglasses.

“Probably. Looks about five, six minutes out. We’ll see.” Clint nodded in agreement, and a moment of silence ensued.

“Good aim isn’t everything, honey,” she piped up, disparagingly. 

“Oh for christ’s sake. I thought we were done with this.”

“How many times have I single handedly saved the mission and pulled the mark away with nothing more than a glass of wine and a short dress, hmm? Too many to count.” She tossed her hair, nose in the air.

“Hey, I’m as progressive as the next guy. Not all of our marks are guys, so who handles the women? Oh right, me. And like seducing rich evil playboy types is that hard, not with everything you’ve got going for you. Trust me, guys are easy- they only want one thing from you when you walk up to ‘em the way you do, and you don’t even have to say a single word. Women, not so much. They’ve got a feel for when you’re tryin’ too hard, or not enough, and sometimes they just don’t care.”

“Hmm, I’ll agree with that assessment.”

“Thank you.”

“You saying you’re easy, Barton? That shallow? Only ‘one thing’ on your mind?”

“Excuse me?” He choked on air, and saw the smirk she tried to hide.

“It’s alright, and I suppose you do know what it’s like to seduce the rich evil playboy types,” she mocked. “Or don’t you remember London, in ‘02?” She was referring to an extraction job, in which they located the mark, who had stolen information from MI5, in a nightclub, and they had to get him to leave without creating a scene in order to abduct him and deliver him to SHIELD. Easy enough, right? If there was one thing Natasha was good at, it was getting inebriated men to follow her away from a bar. Except, sometimes they surprise you, and turn out not to be interested in women at all. “You sure stepped up on that one. Above and beyond. That’s what I put in the mission report.”

“What? You put that on record?” 

Natasha laughed, recalling the memory, also seeing her partner blush. “And the pictures, of course.” Clint suddenly found the ground to be very interesting. “But hey, why are you embarrassed? You did a fine job. Pulled him out, got him to the back alley, and then oh boy, I just had to get pictures of that. That’s real dedication to maintaining cover.”

“Why did you take pictures?” he hissed, feeling betrayed.

“Why did you use tongue?” She smiled evilly. He stared at her, frozen.

The jet was descending, the noise growing louder. 

“I didn’t start it!” He shook his head. She was enjoying this too much. “You’re lying. I know you are. You would have used pictures to blackmail me years ago.” He quickly recovered from his shock and the awkwardness of recalling that night.

“If you’re certain,” she relied with a wink.

“Why didn’t you use them then?” he pressured, not letting it go. 

Natasha shook her head to herself, relenting. “Honestly, I did take pictures because I thought it was hilarious and it also wasn’t half bad,” she grinned, devious. “But back then, we hadn’t been working together for all that long, and for the while we were your were resistant to my considerable charms, so I actually kind of thought that you might be gay. Not,” she clarified, “that it would be any sort of issue. I just didn’t want to out you, is all.”

“Oh.” Clint pondered her admission. “How considerate of you.”

“I know.”

“But wait, you just assume anyone who’s not into you is gay? That’s a little vain.” His words struck a chord, though they were by no means malicious, and looking at Clint, she could see the smile in his eyes. 

The jet was touching down, coming down quickly, wheels descending. The roar of the engines made it near impossible for Clint to hear what Natasha said next, but he could read her lips easily enough.

“Well, you did make out with that dude,” she sassed.

He laughed. No way he was letting her get the last word. “And it wasn’t half bad,” he yelled over the engines as the jet streaked down the runway, mimicking her own words. With a wink, he set off toward the stalling jet, leaving his partner, surprise evident on her face, to gasp and question the underlying meaning of his words, if there was any, behind him.

“Troll!” She yelled, then moving quickly to catch up to the him as he neared the stopped jet.

The engines were dying down, and the door on the side opened, a collapsed metal staircase unfolding and setting down to the ground shortly thereafter. A familiar face ducked through the door, wincing at the bright sunlight as he descended the few steps to the cracked pavement, a black duffel bag large enough to fit a body imprinted with the SHIELD logo thrown over one shoulder.

Agent Moreau was middle aged, about an inch taller than Clint with a slightly thinner build. For the French surname, he was remarkably Mediterranean in appearance, with olive skin, dark eyes, and unruly dark colored hair. He always had a serious expression, and was typically quiet, but once you got to know him, he was actually a pretty decent guy with a good sense of humor.

"Moreau, it's been a while," Clint said, nodding a greeting.

"Barton," Moreau nodded, closing the gap between them, "good to see you're in one piece, an unusual occurrence." The two shook hands, and Moreau turned to greet Natasha in a similar fashion. 

Clint took off his sunglasses and hooked them, leaving them to hang on the collar of his t-shirt. He peered around Moreau to watch four more people disembark from the unmarked jet, each with a respective bag over their shoulder. They all looked pretty young, and very familiar. 

Oh. Good lord.

Clint looked back at Natasha. "You see-?" he motioned back to the jet.

"Yes." She affirmed, eyes moving between the four that approached.

"They're-" he started, then looking at Moreau with disbelief.

"Yes," he said, a smile flickering across his face. "They're new recruits, fresh out of the academy and through the field reviews. Some of the potentials unfortunate enough to have suffered you two for the short time you were stuck with them, actually," he laughed. "On this team I've got Erin Samuels, Daniel Foster, Michael Kreiger, and Jennifer Fallow. All passed with high marks, and are on my team roster for experience before they're transferred to whatever division they're needed."

Clint recalled being at least semi-impressed with the abilities of the recruits whose names he listed, mostly because their names sounded familiar, and he wouldn’t have remembered their names if he hadn’t. But still.

“Fury couldn’t have-”

“No.” Moreau shook his head.

“Not even the guys from-”

“Not even.”

“Well, okay. But if one of them shoots me because they panic and they’re still green behind the ears, I’m not gonna be happy.” Clint put his sunglasses back on so he could size up his new temporary teammates without being too overt or impolite about it. 

Natasha didn’t care about mere socially expected niceties like that and stared them down, mouth a tight line and eyes hard, until they each looked away, uncomfortable under her steely glare. Clint was pretty sure that was just her feral instincts making themselves known by establishing dominance. It was a common routine of hers.

“I see you’ve brought all the fun toys,” Natasha said, indicating to the bags each had over their shoulder.

“That we did. And, not that we should go through any of it here in the open, but I’ve got something for you, Barton.” Moreau dropped his bag and knelt down, unzipping it part-way to reveal a familiar black case nestled on top.

Clint drew in a sharp breath, tearing the sunglasses away from his face. “Fucking finally.” He grabbed his case from Moreau and flipped it open, grinning like a madman as it revealed the sleek edges and graceful curves of his collapsed recurve bow. Goddamnit, he had been itching to get his hands on her again. Alongside his bow, a full quiver was situated, along with arrows tipped with arrowheads requiring more ‘delicate’ handling clipped into the bottom and sides. 

Moreau re-zipped his bag and rose to his feet again. “Fury said you bitched like no other when you couldn’t take it with you the first time around,” he said with a grin, but Clint didn’t care. “I figure though, would be pretty handy, given you’re about to need it.”

Clint closed the case with a satisfying snap, and Moreau hauled his bag back over his shoulder. Natasha sidled forward. “We probably shouldn’t hang around. This way, ladies.” Natasha started back toward the hangar, followed closely by Clint and Moreau who were trailed by Samuels, Foster, Kreiger, and Fallow. 

“Thanks man,” Clint said to Moreau as they walked side by side. “I owe you one.”

“Nah,” he laughed. “Don’t you remember pulling my sorry ass out of a foxhole in Kuwait a few years back? I’m still paying that one back. Plus, I brought you that for purely selfish reasons. You may look ridiculous, but I’ve seen what you can do with that thing. And if you’re going to have my back, I’d rather it be with that.”

“Alright, fair enough. Still, appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” 

They turned the corner around the outside of the hangar, and Natasha led them through the massive open gate, large enough to roll a jet through. Passed the various airport vehicles, the similar hydraulically lifted gate at the opposite end revealed a helicopter SHIELD had arranged for them in order to get to the compound and to extricate Vakhrov and get out quickly, and without being followed. 

“Shotgun,” Natasha called as the neared the black chopper with a news station logo on the side, gassed and ready to go. No one was going to argue with her. Clint took the pilot’s seat, and everyone and their luggage boarded quickly. It was a tight fit, but plenty feasible.

After Clint adjusted, prepared, and checked everything necessary, he powered it up, the spinning of the blades and the dull yet very loud roar of the wind drowning everything else out. 

Once in the air, Moreau explained that there was a secure SHIELD holding facility about an hour’s flight outside the city in the form of an old electric municipal building. A team there would scramble within a half hour’s notice, and take Vakhrov off their hands. His passage back to the states would be taken care of, and Clint and Natasha would be done. They would hopefully, if all went well, be on a jet back to New York that night, or very early morning at the latest. 

“I’m assuming you two have been filled in?” Moreau asked through the headset comms that made communication over the noise viable as they flew over the city.

“Mostly,” Natasha replied. “We still aren’t clear on who exactly I owe a full magazine of bullets to the face for working with Vakhrov and selling us out.”

“Get in line,” Clint amended.

“Well, we’re pretty sure we’ve got an answer for that question. Intel suggests they are with Vakhrov at his warehouse bunker, but the goal is now to get both alive-”

“Bullshit. I did not get shot to show this fucker any mercy-”

“You got shot?” one of the newbies, Fallow maybe, piped up.

“Yes, that’s what I just said. No biggy, but it pissed me off, and giving whoever it is the first class treatment back to HQ is not how I’d like to pay ‘em back.”

“Your point is taken under consideration, Barton, but this is coming from the top of the food chain.”

“Well Fury can go fuck himself,” Clint grumbled, to which Natasha nodded earnestly in agreement, but elicited four gasps and shocked expressions from the cabin. Clint turned in his seat to glare back at them. “And you, children, can tell him I said that. Me, personally. I’ll sign something. See if I give a shit about it.”

‘You’ve said worse things to his face,” Natasha added helpfully.

“I don’t like it either, Barton, but you’d be going against direct orders, and murdering a SHIELD asset-”

That was not helping. “Asset? Seriously? You’re gonna-” 

“Clint,” Natasha interrupted, voice calm, giving him a knowing side eye somewhere between disparaging and sympathizing. “2008, Operation Tiger Lily,” she stated, referencing a joint operation with the CIA that Strike Team Delta had participated in, in which a CIA operative had gone rogue and was selling sensitive information as well as their services to put it to use. Initial orders had been to terminate, but they were later changed, and upon apprehending their mark, she was shipped out to a CIA hell hole in the middle of god knows where for no doubt the rest of her life, having god knows what done to her. Altogether, pretty terrible was to go.

“Think it applies?” Clint asked, a 180 degree turn from pissed off to completely collected.

“I don’t think Fury has anything better planned.”

Clint nodded, considering if SHIELD’s mole really deserved a quick death. If there was one thing Clint couldn’t stand, it was a traitor. “Okay, fair is fair. Orders to extract two targets acknowledged.” His sudden compliance had Moreau suspicious, and the vague, short lived conversation between them had all five passengers in the cabin behind them shaking their heads.

“Could you two possibly be any more complicated or obscure?” Moreau asked, leaning forward between them, heavy on the sarcasm.

“Yes,” they both replied immediately.

“Now, back to the guy we’re not allowed to kill?” Clint prompted.

Moreau explained how, based on his investigation, as well as the information exchanged from Clint and Natasha, Fury and Hill worked to put out multiple lines to suspects that were determined based on past histories and opportunity, and then they went fishing- which was actually a technical term in the business for distributing information or goods, typically false or inoperational, as bait, and waiting for someone to bite. 

"He kept it close to the chest, and only had Agent Hill look into it after he had cleared her."

"He had to clear Hill?" Clint asked in disbelief, knowing as well as anyone how long Fury's second in command had worked for SHIELD and how dedicated she was. She was quite possibly the only person who would never betray it, next to Fury himself.

"Protocol. Anyway, Agent Hill and the Director found multiple cases of things that didn't go as they should: a illegal weapons shipment disappearing while in SHIELD custody in South Korea, a politician assassinated in the Netherlands while under SHIELD's protection, multiple international fugitives on SHIELD's radar going underground just as a strike team is rallied. The list goes on. Individually, that stuff happens occasionally, so it doesn't look like much, but when you dig deeper past all of the bureaucratic red tape and interdepartmental blockades, all of it can be traced back to Alexei Vakhrov through online wire transfers, shell corporations, his arms smuggling business as well as other trafficking interests of his, and his interests in multiple third parties and business associates."

All of the variation spoke to someone inside SHIELD with a very specific level of access feeding information to Vakhrov.

In this case, Hill took the file for Clint and Natasha’s assignment, which had been taken off the books since their concerns, and put different, very slight adaptations back on SHIELD servers and offices in various places different people would go looking for it. A conversation within earshot of someone here, a shredded document there, and all of the cogs in the machine were moving. 

The difference between them being, as Natasha had earlier suspected, the number of operatives supposedly sent on assignment with the two of them. 

“Five,” Natasha stated. “Vakhrov thought there were five.”

“That confirms what we thought,” Moreau added. Apparently, while their mole was doing fine when he had time to cover his tracks and lay low, once the pressure was up, and after he probably hear word from Vakhrov after the mess at the gala and SHIELD closing in, he panicked, and wasn’t nearly as good at covering his trail that time. SHIELD tracked plane tickets purchased under an alias, the destination being Croatia. They didn’t even have to wait on false information from the file to get back to them.

“Not a bad place to go, Croatia,” Clint offered. “It’s on my short list in case of emergencies.”

Natasha nodded. “No extradition, very limited SHIELD and US presence, plenty of foreigners though, so no one raises an eyebrow, and US dollars go a long way there. With a per-capita GDP of just over $17,000-”

“-It’s too poor to be safe and too expensive to be enjoyable. In other words, perfect,” Clint finished for her.

“What, do you two plan ahead together for your worst case, have to flee the country, drop off the face of the earth scenarios or something?” Foster asked.

“Take this as a learning experience, kid. Everyone in our line of work should do exactly that. Don’t write it down anywhere, don’t research it too much at any one place or time, just know it, and have no less than 13 contingency plans.”

“Okay, just curious. If you’ve gotta disappear, how long would it take you?” Foster inquired genuinely.

“After 6 hours, it would take a ridiculous amount of manpower and a lot of luck. After 24, you’ll never see me again. But in less than 20 minutes, if I’m in New York, or D.C., I can get everything I need and go.”

“20 minutes?” Natasha asked, incredulous? “I can go in 15.”

Moreau stopped their emerging argument in its tracks, and after telling Foster that if he didn’t decide to turn traitor or do something immensely stupid to sabotage his career and the rest of his life, he wouldn’t need such extensive escape plans, he continued with his narrative.

“Video feed at the airport he was set to depart from never picked him up- we know, techs poured over it for hours. However, contacts on the ground in Moscow noted an American meeting yesterday at approximately 0800 with ‘security consultants’ that are known to work closely with Vakhrov and monitor his more valuable shipments. After tracking their movement with satellite footage, the word is, our boy was at the party you two crashed rather spectacularly,” Moreau finished, smiling. “And now, we got him with his employer himself, all in one place, nice and tidy for us to wrap up with a pretty bow on top.”

They were over the industrial sector. Flat roofed warehouses and construction yards passing beneath them. 

Clint had just about had enough of backstory.“You know, the suspense is great an’ all, but are you ever gonna actually say who it is we’re not going to be killing today?”  
“Yeah,” Moreau admitted, “but honestly I didn’t want to say while you’re flying this bird.”

“And why’s that?” Natasha asked.

“‘Cause boy, are you two going to be pissed. And I’ve hear flying while angry isn’t good for your health, or the health of anyone in the chopper with you.” He smiled apologetically.  
“Why are we going to be pissed, exactly?” Clint inquired.

“You know the son of a bitch, you’ve worked with him- we all have, actually- and I know for a fact that you don’t like him already.”

At an abandoned warehouse Clint and Natasha had scoped out that morning that was about three and a half miles out from Vakhrov’s compound, Clint brought the chopper in low over the buildings to decrease the risk of detection and put it down in the chained off yard behind it, well out of sight, not that they had yet to see a single human around. They weren’t concerned about being seen.

Disembarking, they hauled the bags of equipment Moreau’s team brought with them into the building, as well as the much smaller backpack Clint and Natasha had tucked away in the chopper ahead of time which contained some weaponry (though Moreau had that most definitely covered), their notebooks, sketched diagrams, and camera from their surveillance of the compound, and their SHIELD uniforms. It wasn’t their Avenger’s gear- that was way too showy- but the black urban combat gear that was typical of SHIELD operatives: all of it black, consisting of a t-shirt, thin kevlar bulletproof vest courtesy of Moreau, a heavy, very durable almost canvas-type material jacket overtop with plenty of pockets and the SHIELD logo, cargo pants, again with plenty of pockets, thigh holster, belt with spare ammunition clips and combat knife, and combat boots. It was all of the basic essentials, and individuals could mix it up from their based on their fighting preferences.

Inside the warehouse, they each changed into their gear, pulling it from bags and organizing an impressive display of weaponry across makeshift plywood tables. Across another table of sheet metal propped up on two wooden sawhorses, Clint set the camera and laid out the various pages of notes and sketches, as well as the one larger blueprint Clint had sketched of the layout of the yard surrounding the compound, the wall and fencing, the line of sight and blindspots of rotating guards, cameras, and motion detectors (all of which Natasha helped with a great deal), the surrounding buildings and cover, and the extent of the compound itself as well as the number of stories it was at various places, all with relatively scale measurements included. He had put it together while Natasha drove them to the airport and while they waited for the jet, piecing together all of the information, sketches, notes, time tables, and pictures. Clint never claimed to be good at art of any kind, but putting together a rough- very, rough- blueprint that was fairly accurate and to scale after ample reconnaissance and with the aid of a ruler or other flat edge was something he was fairly practiced at. Besides, he had an eye for distances and angles and that sort of thing, and they just kind of stuck with him.

Finally though, Clint had had enough. He and Natasha, stood over the map, Natasha notating the times between guard rotations and sweeps of the perimeter on the side of the large diagram the two had labored over. “Moreau,” Clint called in a no nonsense voice, getting the older man’s attention. “Spill.” Clint figured it was like ripping off a bandaid- best get it over with.

He pulled a folded picture from his breast pocket, and slid it across the table to Clint and Natasha, who stood shoulder to shoulder. “Our contacts in Moscow got this, and affirmed what we already knew. Natasha got up the nerve to flick it open first.

"Son of bitch," Clint swore as he straightened abruptly, pushed away from the make-shift table. He didn’t really how to react; sure, he was absolutely pissed, but he also felt, just, disgusted. He stepped away and leaned against the far wall, bracing against it on his elbows, his forehead resting against his clasped hands, trying to straighten his thoughts and get control of the roiling emotions that swept him off his feet. “Fuck this. Fuck this,” he repeated shaking his head, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. 

He could take betrayal, the people he cared most about stabbing him in the back; his whole life was filled with it. He would have thought he was used to it. Except, odd thing was, he wasn’t even close to this guy- in fact, didn’t even like him, Moreau was right. However, he had stood right next to him not too long ago, the troubles and injury he had faced from his first assignment on Vakhrov in Nicaragua still fresh- the troubles and injury he had faced because of that bastard- and he hadn’t known it. 

Natasha stood motionless, silently glaring at the photo, cold murder in her yes and the set of her jaw. "I'm going to kill him," she said, voice cold and low. 

“Except we can’t,” Clint laughed, a humorless, bitter sound, hating every part of this situation. “We already covered that.”

Clint turned and stalked back to the table of weaponry where the case containing his collapsed bow and quiver sat. He flicked it openly deftly, withdrawing his weapon, and snapping it outward, the limbs extending into place perfectly. "We all knew Miller was an ass, but a traitor? What the hell..." 

Moreau recollected the picture and tucked it away. “Miller was- operative word being was, he’s been frozen out- a mid level clearance agent, running field exams for recruits and overseeing training exercises at SHIELD headquarters for six years now, like most guys did when they got a little too old to keep up with the rigors of field work. But you know that; you worked with him and Connolly on those four’s field exams prep.” He motioned to Foster, Samuels, Kreiger, and Fallow, who were standing idly to the side, looking like they’d heard all of this before. “Before he was transferred there, he was a field agent assigned to low risk assessment team details; mostly protection for valued assets and standard operating procedures. He had no disciplinary mark-ups, never did anything exceptional, and was a completely average agent in every way possible. I guess, in a way, that made it easier for him.”

"How long has he been in Vakhrov's pocket?" Natasha asked, not having moves a muscle. She wore a cold mask, concealing her thoughts and emotions well enough with impassive features that Clint couldn’t really get a read on her.

"It’s hard to say for certain, but it would have to be at least three years, about three years after he stepped down from active field duty," Moreau replied, "But, again, we can't be totally sure."

Natasha took a shallow breath, then turned to Clint, signing rapidly. ‘I take it back. He deserves to die.’

Clint shook his head. ‘I know, I would love to kill the bastard, but you know we can’t. It’s a direct order, and you were right earlier. He’ll get what’s coming to him-’  
‘Fuck that. Since when do you listen to me? Three years? How many SHIELD agents, how many innocent people, do you think he’s sold out and gotten killed in that amount of time?’

‘Since when do you make me be the rational one, Nat? I know that, and Fury knows that, and he will get what is coming to him,’ Clint repeated, signing more deliberately and forcefully, giving her the look.

‘After what he did- he almost got you killed. You almost died because he sold you out, and then he stood right next to you, next to us, and acted like- acted like-’ She clenched her hands, either at a loss for words (well, signs) or more emotions were raging under the surface than he thought.

Clint took a step toward her, but stopped himself short. They had five observers looking on, four, considering Moreau was respectfully turning his back to them as he examined the diagrams and notes on the table, and even though he was sure none of them new ASL, it was still a little awkward.

‘Nat, I’m okay. Yes, that was pretty shitty of him, but it’s not a reason to disobey direct orders.’

‘And what if it was?’ she signed the question, eyes cold as she met his softer gaze. But, behind the cold exterior, he saw the same flickering concern, and that little bit of something else. 

‘Moreau was right. This would be going after Miller in cold blood. It would be murder. Unsanctioned, Nat. Please, don’t. Don’t throw away your career, maybe your life, for me, Nat. I’m not worth that.’

She didn’t move, hands still in her lap for a moment, eyes staring down at them. Finally, she looked back up and met his gaze. What she signed was simple, but it stopped him in his tracks, and made his heart thump just that much faster, a weird feeling turning over and over in his gut. ‘You are.’

Another minute passed. 

‘Alright,’ she signed, eyes avoiding him again. ‘Alright.’

Clint cleared his throat, nodding. “Okay, moving on. We’ve got a lot of shit to get done in the next,” Clint checked for the time, realizing he didn’t have a watch. “Time check?”  
“About 1630,” Kreiger, Clint thought that was Kreiger, replied. 4:30 in the afternoon.

“We have a lot of shit to do in the next three, three and a half hours. We need to plan an assault, sweep pattern, extraction, and exit into this military grade compound, as well as multiple contingencies for each depending on what we find in there and what happens,” Clint said as he walked around the table housing the diagram and various other papers strewn across it. “We go tonight, after dark. Vakhrov and Miller won’t stay there forever.”

"Right," Moreau said as he and the four others gathered around the table. "We need to strike hard and fast before he tries to disappear again. Barton, are you taking point on this?" Clint glanced at Natasha, who still was avoiding eye contact with him, which was concerning. Had he hurt her? Offended her? Both? Damnit, he couldn’t very well clear that up with the five others around, but he needed them to be working fluidly for this. Like always. “Uh, no.” He was going to stick with Natasha, and taking point wouldn’t let him do that. “You take point, lead your own damn team,” he said jokingly.

“Sure. I’m still going to defer to you for tactical analysis though, seeing as you’re the most senior, highest level agent here.”

“Oh sure, or you just don’t want your underlings to see you make a fool of yourself,” he grinned, leaning over the papers.

“Don’t be an ass, Barton.”

“Sorry, can’t help it.” All eyes were on him now, except Natasha, which apparently only he noticed, but as small as it was, it was like a massive fucking elephant in the room for him. And he couldn’t fucking do a goddamned thing about it right now. He was undoubtedly in charge of organizing this op now, even if Moreau would take the head in the field, and he had to attend to it first. 

Clint studied the diagram of Vakhrov's hideaway in front of him, pouring over the details despite having drawn a good portion of it himself. "We'll go with the standard urban assault tactical format. Moreau, you're taking Alpha, point position along with Bravos 1, 2, and 3." Team leader, or Alpha, was responsible for monitoring everyone's progress, organizing the progression of the op, calling changes in the play, and in the end they had the last say.

Clint looked up at the four new agents awaiting orders to see which three acknowledged positions as Bravo, or who would take on the position of 'breachers'. Kreiger, Fallow, and Samuels nodded. "You four will make a hard entrance at the main doors, drawing fire and clearing a path.” He indicated to the diagram as he spoke, pointing with a pencil to various positions. "From the look of it, his base in Nicaragua is nearly identical,so I can sketch out what I suspect you’ll see, but don’t count on it. Once inside, I’m thinking you should spearhead the center, going deep as you can into the compound, and adjusting based on resistance you encounter.” Moreau agreed. Basically, because he didn’t have an entire SHIELD unit at his disposal, they couldn’t cover and clear the entire building to find their marks, so they would target the most secure locations, typically at the center first, in order to cause movement and chase out the ones they were looking for, who would be inclined to move away from the conflict, and who would then find themselves running straight into Clint and Natasha. He explained as much for the benefit of the four youngest agents.

“Natasha and I have Foxtrot 1 and 2," he said, and glanced at Natasha to see her nodding in approval. At least she was listening to him. Foxtrot identified an agent as a 'flanker'. "We'll cut down your worst opposition on your way inside,” because they would be separated from the other four and hidden from the view of whoever responds, thus able to target them quickly and effectively, “and follow you in when the way is clear. While you go center, we’ll circle the outside edges, cutting access to the stairways and exits, and preventing reinforcements on the top floors from cutting off our final retreat as well as keeping you informed of general movement. I’m thinking C-4 for the staircases to make things easier, if you've got any?” 

Clint raised an eyebrow at Moreau, who scoffed. “Who doesn’t pack an excessive amount of C-4 nowadays? Isn’t that the point of flying private?”

“Good. We will then meet your team in the middle, or wherever you end up, given the situation, when we’ve cut off stairway access from the upper floors.” Clint looked up from the papers. “Foster, you have sniper training?" Clint looked at the young man, who was the only one he had not designated a position to yet.

"Yes, Sir." Foster nodded.

"Then you're taking Sierra up on this rooftop corner. Lock down the building; don't let anyone enter or exit, except us, of course. On our way in, I don’t want you to lay down any cover if at all possible. Don’t want to risk giving away your location, because we’ll need you there more on our way out.When we have retrieved the packages, we'll pull out through this side door here, probably. Don’t want to have to backtrack at all- that’s where we might run into trouble with reinforcements running to meet us. Cover our retreat, then make your way down once were clear. It’ll be dark though, so, infrared thermal scope?”

“Have that too,” Moreau nodded.

“Okay then. After everyone is clear, with packages in tow, we book it this warehouse adjacent right here.” Clint tapped the paper with the pencil, frowning. “In that case, we need to cut through this fencing here ahead of time, because there’s no way in hell we’re making a clean getaway, and we won’t have time on the exit. Once we’re out of the immediate line of fire, Foster, get down the ladder on the side here and make for the chopper back here. You good to make your way separate? Meeting halfway would be complicated, and risky, given we are not going to have the timing down to science or anything.”

“No Sir, that’s fine by me.”

“Good. But cut the Sir crap, all of you. I only have the potentials do that when they piss me off. But you’re all proper field agents now, aren’t you?” They nodded, a little unsure of where he was going with this. “Well, don’t fuck up tonight and you might stay that way.”

Clint returned his attention to the papers. “Right, so once we make it to cover at this warehouse, wo run like hell, dragging two unwilling marks with us, for about three and a half miles back to the chopper, which needs to be all packed up and ready to go ahead of time. Unfortunate, but doable, and seeing as moving it any closer to the compound could give us away, it’s what we’re going with.”

A thought occurred to him. “I know Natasha can sort of fly a chopper- and I use sort of very loosely- but can anyone else here?”

“I haven’t in awhile, but I’m sure it’s like riding a bike,” Moreau said. 

Kreiger nodded. “I can, Agent Barton.”

“Hmm, Academy?” He didn’t think they went over that much there.

“Air force. Before, the Academy.” 

“Can you fly one, very well?” he specified.

“I’d say so, Sir.” Clint wasn’t going to correct him on the Sir thing.

“Excellent. In the case I am incapable, or otherwise deceased, I delegate flying duties to Kreiger here, unless of course he finds himself similarly unable, in which case it goes to Moreau, then Natasha. And if it gets to her, god help you all.”

Natasha snorted, rolling her eyes. He looked her way, hopeful, even it was just for her to yell at him for joking about his own imminent death again, but she didn’t say anything. She did, however, finally meet his gaze. He couldn’t get a read on her.

Everyone moved in, leaning in closely to examine the layout of the compound and surrounding area, examining distances, and debating time and how long different aspects should take as they delved into the outline of a plan that was just as rough as the hand sketched, hastily thrown together blueprint they had constructed, trying to smooth out the rough edges and work out contingency options.

As everyone began talking, and all eyes were no longer on him, Clint raised a brow at his partner. They didn’t need to sign to carry on a silent conversation; they had known each other, worked together for long enough in high stress situations to be able to read each other’s body language well enough, anything from a flash of emotion across their face to a small intentional gesture conveying a question of a message. They each had dozens of different looks for varying situations; anything from ‘You are such a child’ to ‘Don’t you fucking do it’ to ‘that is a terrible idea’, or at least those were the common ones he got. However, despite all of this, despite the question he was asking her- ‘Are you okay?’ - he was getting very little. But it wasn’t that he was getting the sense that she was angry at him. It was more like when she was guarding herself, retreating back inside, and away from him, and everything else.

He didn’t know why; well, he did. It had to be to do with Miller’s betrayal, right? And wanting to kill the guy, but not being able to. But, he didn’t really know why, and it concerned him. Usually, she would talk to him, give him something about what was the matter. But she was blocking herself off, a cold mask descended over her features that not even he could fully get through. She was protecting herself, even from him. And it hurt. But more than that, it was very concerning because not only were they about to set out on the final part of their mission, which would be dangerous and they would need to be at their best, but he was still worries that she would go after Miller.

Would she really do that though? Kill someone in cold blood because of him? He didn’t even have to think about it, he realized suddenly. Except that was a lie. He knew all along. No. Not because of him. She would kill someone for him. The words she had signed returned to the forefront of his mind. You are. He was worth killing someone for to her. And if he asked himself honestly, wouldn’t he do the same thing? Hadn’t he done the same thing? Hadn’t he killed those guards at the hotel when they came between him and Natasha, who he knew was in danger? He hadn’t even given it a second though. There was just anger. Anger like Natasha had expressed so subtly when discussing Miller. Oh god.

He got it. Oh christ, he got it-

“Hey, Barton. You have your ears on?” Moreau called, and with eyes on him again, Clint got the feeling that wasn’t the first time his name had been called.

“Yeah, sorry. What?”

“You said this compound looked like the one you got into in Nicaragua?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll, uh, I’ll do my best to sketch that last one out. No promises that they’re anything alike on the inside though, so don’t exclusively plan on it looking like this or anything.”

Clint looked back at Natasha, but she she had moved on to discussing something about the breach formation with Fallow and Samuels. The moment to say something to her had passed. They needed to get their heads in the game; their time was ticking down. He was going to keep a close eye on her though. He was going to have her back.


	23. Here's to Spectacular Exits

They had spilled over the maps and blueprints for as long as it took to work out every part of their entry and exit to perfection, or at least to the best it could be, seeing as they couldn’t know for certain the internal layout of the compound. Every potential problem was assessed, and they had multiple contingency plans for every problem, and every emergency they could think of, which was approximately a lot. But still, Natasha knew that they couldn't account for everything, and something unexpected would go wrong. It always did. Perhaps not catastrophically wrong, but bad enough to throw a wrench in their well rehearsed plans. 

When they were ready, it was a little later than they had wanted to set out by, but it was better to delay the plan than rush it- that’s how people get hurt. They geared up, each with an assortment of weapons, ranging from semi-automatic assault rifles to throwing blades to C-4 plastic explosives to handguns to SHIELD’s own variation of a grenade launcher, except the effect was more impressive. Clint of course had his recurve bow in hand, quiver strapped across his back, handgun for emergencies holstered at his thigh, an assortment of blades and ammunition clips at his belt, and additional arrows of a more interesting variety that they determined they would need in a smaller, more narrow quiver strapped into his belt that hung at his side. Natasha was armed to the teeth with small caliber handguns, knives, throwing blades, ammunition clips, and her ‘widow bites’, naturally. (Clint didn’t call them that to her face though, because the first, and the last, time he did, he learned they hurt like a bitch- worse than any taser he’d been hit with.) His partner also had a small black bag slung over her shoulder which contained the C-4, det cord, and blasting caps. 

She made a frightening sight; Natasha may be able to pull of a helpless, damsel in distress look in a cocktail dress, but in her SHIELD tactical uniform, bristling with who knows how many blades and guns, and with the confidence in the set of her jaw and the sway of her stride, she struck a fearsome image. Yet, Clint only needed to see that brightness in her eyes to know she was capable of anything, no matter her apparel or weaponry. For the millionth time, he noted to himself just how grateful he was to have her as his partner, and also just how proud he was of her. Not that he had a right to be or anything; she wasn’t ‘his’ to be proud of or anything, he wasn’t her mentor, wasn’t responsible for her, but he was still so damn proud of what she had made of herself. She had come a long way from her former life, and even from when they first met all those years ago, but that was another story altogether. 

By then, it was 8;45 pm in Moscow, and using the cover the darkness provided, they crept through the ghost town that was the industrial district of the city, barren of anything and anyone except for the empty shells of decrepit warehouses, the rail yard, factories, and construction yards. Stepping over train tracks, weaving around and through buildings, slipping around rusted fencing, moving over shallow containment walls, avoiding open yards and spaces as much as they avoided narrow funnels and ‘kill boxes’ without multiple avenues for escape, and sticking to the shadows in the moonlight, their party of seven closed the distance between their base of operations and their target at a brisk pace. They remained alert, watching their rear and flanks, checking around corners and watching rooftops for any sort of movement, weapons at the ready. As they closed in, they fanned out, Clint and Natasha moving for the adjacent side of the compound, Foster headed for the back of the warehouse directly across the gravel road where Clint and Natasha had been earlier, sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, and Moreau and the rest of his team going into the back of that same warehouse, making their way to the front.

Foster was on the roof in the position they had indicated, with a clear view of the yard and the two entrances they were concerned about by the time Clint and Natasha were ducking behind construction equipment and stacks of piping and cinder block next door to their target. Moreau, Kreiger, Fallow, and Samuels were crouching behind the crumbling brick wall within the warehouse, the busted out windows on the face of the building above them, through which they would exit quickly when the time came to move directly across the narrow road in a straight shot to the fence gate and on the the main doors of Vakhrov's compound.

Their target didn’t look like much more than the warehouses surrounding it to the casual observer, but upon close inspection with a trained eye, it was not at all the same. It was the first time Moreau and his team put eyes on the three story warehouse surrounded by fencing, low walls, and razor wire, however it was everything they had planned for, from what they could see. Multiple guards with automatic weapons were on display making rounds along the perimeter, but if they stuck to the schedule that Clint and Natasha had noted earlier, breaching ought to go well. Clint edged forward, slipping behind a bulldozer and staying close in its shadow to get a better angle on the multiple motion sensitive flood lights, security cameras, and alarms situated above the doors, which were industrial grade and steel reinforced.

He could handle them well enough, but it was a good thing they weren't going for a silent entry. Quick and violent, yes, and hopefully they would be able to cross the open yard and get to or inside the main doors before they started taking fire, but the one thing it would not be was quiet. Clint didn’t at all care for this type of thing. Send him to slip in there alone, unnoticed, even without backup, sure, he was fine, but incursions were messy and confusing business.

Moreau's voice came over their coms. "This is team leader. Bravo team in position. Sierra, what’s your twenty? Over."

"This is Sierra. I count four guards patrolling the perimeter fence, in two pairs of two circling the building. One pair at your 10 o’clock on the west side wall, team leader, other at your 2 o’clock on the east side” The two guards patrolling the east side of the wall were moving directly in front of Clint and Natasha, only about 25 meters away. “Two more at the front gate of the fence, stationary, and final two at the main doors to the compound. Eight total, automatic weapons, bullet proof armor, and comm devices, as predicted. Over”

"This is Foxtrot 1," Natasha said, voice hard in a way he recognized whenever something was about to go down. "We are in position to move on the targets on the east wall. Over."

"Foxtrot team," Moreau came on again, "Do you have a visual of targets at the main doors in addition to those at your 12 o’clock on the east side wall? Over."

"Clear visual on two targets patrolling the east side wall," Clint affirmed, fingers dancing over the fletching of the arrows in his quiver as he peered over the hood of the bulldozer, Natasha a step behind him. "I’m gonna need a higher vantage point for targets at the main door. Just give me a countdown to green light. Over."

“Sierra, clear visual of targets at my 10 o’clock on the west side?” Moreau asked.

“Affirmative. Two targets in the red zone.” Originally, Clint didn’t plan for their sniper to be put to use on entrance, but given that the guard rotation was in a position for them to all converge at once, the chances of anyone left standing locating Foster’s position were miniscule, and they didn’t have anyone else to cover guards on the far side. If they didn’t all move at once, there was an opportunity for one of the guards to sound the alarm over their comms, and they didn’t want that to happen until they were breaching the main doors.

Moreau’s voice sounded over the comms. “On my go, clear the field. Sierra, take two targets on the west side perimeter, Foxtrot 1, two on the east side. Foxtrot 2, main doors. Bravo 1 and 2, move into position to neutralize targets at the gate. Bravo 1, take left, Bravo 2, right. Bravo 3, on my six as we move. “ Final check to proceed, are we clear?”

"This is Bravo 1 for go."

"Bravo 2 is a go, team leader."

"Bravo 3 for go."

"This is Sierra, we are a go, team leader."

"Foxtrot 1 is go."

"Foxtrot 2, let’s get this party started."

"We are a go. I repeat, we are a go. Green light in T minus 20 - 19 - 18..."

As Moreau started the countdown over the coms, Clint pulled himself onto the hood of the bulldozer he was previously behind, stepping off the hydraulics and the caterpillar tread and the the keeping himself close to the raised cabin for cover as he maneuvered to get a better view of the yard behind the walls and fencing. He glanced Natasha dart around the bulldozer, dancing through the shadows light as a feather as she moved from cover to cover between equipment and stacks of construction materials until she was well in the blind spot behind the two patrolling guards, where she broke away and rapidly closed the distance between herself and the two targets, headed for the cover of an excavator only 10 meters back. While Clint could comfortably hit a target at a 150 meters with his recurve bow (250 with his compound), Natasha had opted to carry her preferred handguns, and no matter how accurate she was, they were not meant for long range. 

He selected two standard arrows, nocking them effortlessly between his fingers. Exhale on the draw through the familiar stretch of muscle and sinew. The wire tenses. Back muscles tighten and lock.

“5 - 4 ”

Aim for center mass, slow breathing. 

“3 - 2 - 1 “

Exhale.

“Go.”

Release. The wire slips through his fingers, and both arrows fly. A second later, he sees they found their mark, and both guards at the main doors stumble and slump to the ground, still. He didn’t even register the simultaneous cracks of gunfire through the night, as focused as he was on his targets down the shaft of his arrows.

In mere seconds, eight men had dropped to the ground. None of them knew what was happening, and none would have had time to alert others inside the compound, It was quick. It was ruthless. But they were mercenaries, working for an international criminal. They chose their side, and Clint had long ago chosen his. This was the job, and it was necessary. 

Still, the ricochets of the gunshots through the night would have alerted someone to their presence, and they were now on the clock. No more time for orchestrated movements and countdowns- they were putting the plan into action and moving.

After dropping the guards, Clint spared a second to look around from his vantage point and see everyone else had done the same before he drew an arrow that was essentially one of his grappling hooks, but with a small EMP emitting device, courtesy of Stark, of course, from the spare quiver at his side and aimed it at the wall above the main door, letting it fly. It hit, and the only evidence that it knocked out the security measures was the small sparks that went off of the cameras, lights, and alarm pads before dying out. Clint repeated the process with the second door. They didn’t care if the alarms sounded- in fact, all the better for inciting panic and confusion- they just didn’t want the motion detectors or flood lights going off before they were ready to storm the place.

It had been less than 10 seconds.

"Bravo team, move out." Moreau, Samuels, Fallow, and Kreiger moved forward without a sound, rapidly approaching the front gate in a diamond formation. Moreau, who was point, reached the gate first and cut through the chain locking it closed before tossing the bolt cutters aside. The four carried through the now open gate, semi-crouched, half running, their formation allowing them to cover all angles, making a beeline for the main door where two of them lined up along the wall on the left side of the door, a third on the right side, and the fourth, Moreau, stood ten five meters back directly in front of the door. 

With a motion from him, the three others shuffled back along the wall just as far before Moreau raised the grenade launcher on steroids and fired it at the door. Clint knew well enough to avert his gaze, because the brilliant, massive fireball that lit up the night would have practically blinded him, his eyes adjusted to the dark as they were. He still heard the awful screeching and groaning of tearing, rending metal along with the blast of the explosion, and it was enough to make his skin crawl. 

Before the fires and burning, melting chunks of the wall of the warehouse were even settled, there was chaos. The alarm blared, a whirring, whining siren so high pitched it made his aids shriek with the feedback, which was unpleasant to say the least. Then there were people yelling, lights flashing, and another massive explosion when Moreau fired again through the smouldering, jagged hole in the wall where industrial grade reinforced three inch steel doors had been. The flames licked at the night sky through the opening, and when they receded, Moreau tossed the heavy, cumbersome weapon aside and retrieved his assault rifle from where it was strapped across his back.

Then, he and his team were moving through the the opening they had created. The fires still cast light and long shadows across the yard and into the building. The siren almost drowned out the yelling, the screams, and the rapid, unending gunfire of automatic weapons from inside the building. 

Clint hit the button on the side of his watch to start the timer before lifting his hand to turn down the volume of the comm on his hearing aid; he could hear the calamity first person, and didn’t need it carrying through Bravo team’s comms right into his ears. He then leaped from his perch on top of the machine to the ground, and moved around the construction area to meet Natasha were she had crouched to wait for the chaos to move further inside the building. As he came up besides her, he tapped her shoulder, letting her know he was there and ready to move when she was, seeing as they would have to yell to be heard over the noise and it could just give their positions away. 

She motioned with a hand visible over her shoulder in one jerk movement for him to follow as she took point. They moved out quickly, staying low to the ground, weapons drawn and held ready, Clint with an two arrows nocked, coming to the fence line on the east side of the building where Natasha cut through the chain link fence like butter with a glowing blue baton like weapon that hummed with electricity. She pulled one side of the fence away, and Clint pulled himself quickly through the opening over the shallow wall and, rolling to the right, came to a stop, kneeling on top of the low brick wall. He had his bow drawn and scanned for threats, covering them both as Natasha followed him through. 

Movement at the opening Bravo team created caught his attention. Three silhouettes, backed by the light of the flames, stood out against the black night, two stumbling into his view first, a third close behind, turning in every which way, guns raised, obviously disoriented, probably from the explosion. Clint raised, aimed, completed his draw, tensed, exhaled, released, fingers searching for a third arrow before even seeing his first two hit their marks, and repeated. Their way was again clear.

Natasha clapped him on the shoulder from behind when she was up and crouched behind him, weapons up. As she now covered him, he jumped down to the ground, and she followed shortly. They moved in tandem, each letting the other know of their position and readiness with touches and indicating directions with brief hand signals, and through this system they had perfected throughout the years, they were constantly aware of the other’s intentions and placement, and one of them was always covering them and watching their backs. 

They moved, semi-crouched along the base of the wall, keeping their backs to it, eyes searching and weapons raised in preparation for any further threats. When the wall took them as close to the compound as it could, they darted across the open space and continued their path to the still-smouldering opening in the wall, pressing themselves as close as they could to the warehouse wall at their sides, Clint facing forward, Natasha walking carefully backwards to cover their backs in case of more guards spilling out from the east side exit. 

Clint neared the opening, and stopped, Natasha moving to crouch besides him. She glanced over her shoulder at her partner, who met her gaze for just a few milliseconds before they turned away to continue their active search and threat analysis of the terrain. They didn't have to say anything, but in that millisecond, silent words were exchanged. They each knew that, after another minute or so to allow Moreau’s team to penetrate deeper into the compound and draw most of the fire, they would be moving in through the way they had cleared as well. And they didn’t know what would happen inside, but the threat that constantly hung over their heads was there, and they were more aware of it than ever. 

There was always the risk that something would go horribly wrong- that someone wouldn’t be coming back. However, there was nothing they could do but acknowledge it, but also assure themselves, and each other, that they had each others' back. They knew this was just another mission, on just another day. They knew it was almost over, and they would both get out alright. They would make sure of it. Today was not the day to die.

As Moreau’s team moved further inside, the noise died down from the initial breach, but they could still hear the never ending spray of gunfire echo through the compound.  
Thinking about it, Clint realized that ‘look’ was really the first meaningful exchange between them since whatever it was that happened that resulted in Natasha pulling away from him at the warehouse where they were all gathered around planning their strategy of attack. It was a relief to Clint, even though he still couldn’t describe what it was that came between them, or how it had left. But then, putting tricky relationship and people stuff to words wasn’t his strong suit, he told himself. Blurred lines were just… complicated… and just, ugh, why couldn’t there be a nice neat plan of action for this kind of thing… if there was a ‘thing’ going on, or, whatever. 

The low beep from his watch stopped that train wreck of a train of thought in its tracks. Clint looked down at his watch and the timer he had started. In exactly 60 seconds now, they need to move through the entrance Bravo team so helpfully made. They then would have 15 minutes to move through the ground floor, clearing it as they went, but their goal being to disable every staircase, elevator, ladder, or weak point in the building’s infrastructure that they came across in an effort to hurt the ability of the guards and targets inside to move through the compound to bring reinforcements or to cut them off or encircle them. Essentially, Clint and Natasha’s job was to blow important bits of the compound to hell in order to up the chaos and confusion factor, and also helping to weed out their marks.

There was also the frequency jammer sitting up with Foster in his sniper nest that he was tasked with turning on as soon as Bravo team breached, seeing as any sooner would tip them off something was up, that would render the guards comms and any signals except direct secured satellite links useless. (Their own comms were on a secured frequency that they exempted from the device’s target range, which they set to cover a wide spectrum bandwidth encompassing the frequencies common to the military issue comms Clint had seen the guards using.) So, by surprising them at night with Bravo team’s blitz attack, disabling their comms, and then sending in Clint and Natasha to set up explosive devices throughout the compound at prime targets, they were aiming to quickly and effectively cripple their adversaries’ abilities to respond, organize and rally an effective defense. 

In terms of the exact role Clint and Natasha were to play in this final stage of the mission, the plan was a little less specific, and more up to their discretion. First of all, they didn’t have access to the exact layout of the compound when planning it, so there was guesswork and generalizations involved in the placing and priming of C-4. Secondly, more than just to place C-4, they were moving in last while Bravo team served as a major distraction so they could slip through, identify weak points, find their marks if need be, and provide backup to Moreau and the other three when they needed it. While all of the guards responded to the the fireworks, Clint and Natasha would be placing what was, quite frankly, a shit ton of highly combustible plastic explosives that pack quite the punch, and they would have the ability to move just about anywhere quickly, while the guards were drawn away. It would likely be up to them to find and grab Miller and Vakhrov. By the time they came to extraction, however, they wouldn’t be able to proceed as subtly, so that’s when the C-4 came into play. They detonate on their way out, cripple guards’ movement’s in response, and provide themselves cover to get out of there.

At its very core, the plan was simple: fuck their shit up with the distraction, grab their marks, and get out, ending it with a bang. However, after hours of discussion and planning and contingencies, there were a hundred different ways it could go. It’s not like they had the weeks notice to plan and prep this thing, so they were pretty much winging it. But hey, Clint was alright with that- winging it was what they usually resorted to anyway.

Clint glanced back down at the timer, feeling terribly exposed, every muscle tense and ready to spring. Christ, this was the longest 60 seconds of his life. 

Finally- finally- it was time. Clint, because he had both hands occupied with his half drawn bow, shifted his weight and nudged Natasha’s shin behind him with a boot, and then, with a tilt of his head, indicated it was time to move in. On some unspoken command, they both turned around the blackened wall and slipped inside, weapons raised and looking for any sort of movement. Both maneuvering to the right, they stayed low and kept their backs to the wall, stepping over and around smoldering pieces of wall and twisted metal fragments that littered the room and entryway. Clint allowed Natasha to slip in front of him and take the lead, seeing as a bow was more effective further back, and she was more equipped to engage in hand-to-hand if a guard emerged from a doorway or around a corner in front of them as they went. He stayed close behind keeping careful vigilance for any threat to approach from behind them as they slipped through, so very differently from Bravo team’s entrance.

The warehouse-turned-military-compound was similar enough to the layout of the one in Nicaragua. (That is, before it was blown to hell, leaving only rubble and a burning crater in it’s wake.) The main room was cavernous, extending from the concrete floor to the metal rafters of the slanted roof three stories up, and in length, the back wall was a little more than a half of a football field from (what was previously) the front doors. The doors in the back were blown open, and that, along with the blackened concrete, blasted crates, and strewn bodies of guards, was evidence of Bravo team’s movement to the back segment of the compound, which were three floors of hallways and rooms as well as the entrance to the basement. Identical open arches wide enough to drive a two person biplane through led to the east and west wings.

Large overhead lights were suspended from the ceiling, though they already provided relatively poor lighting without the flashing red warning lights that lined the walls and catwalks above that made it worse, making immediately identifying movement and picking out targets difficult with all of the rapidly shifting colors of red tinged light and moving shadows. The repeated blaring of the alarm echoing around the space was almost loud enough to drown out the automatic gunfire. Almost. 

In the back corner of the warehouse was an actual, fucking massive military tank, complete with swivel turret, steel treads, and anti-rpg slat armor. How in the hell Vakhrov got his hands on that, Clint had no idea. Massive wooden crates labeled in various languages were stacked along each side of the ground floor, along with shipping containers, all arranged in rows, an open path wide enough to move machinery through down the center, crates and containers creating alleys, corners, and a close quarter combat strategist’s nightmare. 

Clint and Natasha hugged the outside perimeter, moving along the wall to the right in a manner that would take them passed the east wing archway on their way to the back of the warehouse. They moved as quickly as they could, having to clear the upper level overhang and the alleys created by the stacked crates and shipping containers as they did, though thus far, they had only encountered the three guards at the entrance.

The was just ahead of them, and they heard yelling in Russian and the pounding of feet coming from a little ways off through it. With a small hand signal, Natasha motioned for Clint to take the other side of the arch after she peered around the corner and found it to be clear for now. He darted across the four or so meters with light steps, dropping to the ground and rolling over a shoulder to take cover behind the wall in order to remain unseen at the last second when movement around the similarly stacked crates in the east wing caught his eye. Both stood still, pressed close to the walls, bow and guns raised to chest level, laying an ambush.

As he knelt, he nocked an additional arrow to the one he had already, given the number of voices. Part of the reason he didn’t stand, however, was that his side was killing him, unfortunately. No matter what you did to fix it, fractured and bruised ribs and a bullet hole through your side was still exactly that. And they were still remarkably fresh. The pain had been minimal, at least bearable, when his movements were more reserved, but that quick dive for cover had not been well received by his injuries, and that didn’t bode well for the rest of the mission. He would manage though. He always managed.

Guards came three at a time, running around the corner too quickly to stop so , but they realized what was happening too late to do so anyway, and by the time they did, they had passed Clint and Natasha by and put a meter or so of distance between them. There were six in all. Clint released two electric scatter shot arrows, a type he had become fond of after New York, which hit the two guards guards in the center of their group and with loud snapping sounds and bluish electric flares dropped the other four by their sides. Natasha didn’t even have to fire, and she knew enough to wait the second to see what her partner would do, because additional gunshots, while they may be difficult to hear over the distant gunfire and the drone of the alarm in the background, would only serve to give away their location.

Clint pulled himself upright, bracing against the wall as his side protested loudly, flaring up in pain, but he grit his teeth and pushed through it. Damn, getting shot really did suck. Wouldn’t recommend it.

Looking at the six men that lay at his feet, knowing they wouldn’t be getting up and he was responsible for it, it struck Clint as so very wrong. Six men who were just faces, not names or actual people. He would never know their names, or their stories, or if they deserved it. Working for a man like Vakhrov… he knew they were by no means innocent, but then, neither was he. Seeing one of the guards lying there, wide eyed and staring off into nothing, it threw him back. He couldn’t look away, as much as he wanted to. As much as he wanted to shut it all out. But he would remember their faces. He would always be cursed to remember their faces. Agents from New York, the helicarrier, Loki, innocent people, dead, just gone. He did that. He just saw their faces. And they always came back to haunt him. Too many… 

But then Natasha was there. Right next to him, helping up, moving them on. Right, this was so not the time to have a freak out, Barton, he scolded himself. He took a breath, and when he let it out, he was back in the game, alert and thrumming with adrenaline. With Natasha at his side, a steady presence, they continued clearing the floor. 

She was at his side the second she saw it. After all the time she spent with him, after everything they had done together, there were times she was sure that she knew him better than herself. She did. And she saw him slipping. Recognized the empty, far off expression. It wasn’t often- in fact, it had been months now. After New York, after what happened to him, she knew mental health wise he had taken a hit. Sometimes he was just, absent. Something triggered him, and he was gone, but usually just for a flash, and she didn’t even know if he realized it himself. But it had been months since she’d seen it. She blamed it on herself, bringing up New York earlier, right in the middle of a difficult mission that was the culmination of what was already a very taxing month for him. This was obviously not the time though; they needed to be sharp, alert, finish the job, stick to the schedule.  
So Natasha filed it away on the list of things they needed to talk about, which, while not an incredibly long list, was still sitting heavy in her chest with the weight of it all, and it’s significance. There was… they needed to talk. But right now was most definitely not the time to chat. She pulled him away, saying something reassuring that she was sure he didn’t pick up over the noise, also mentally noting how he was holding himself and how his breathing was off, fast and shallow, and recognized the telltale signs of pain. But what should she have expected? You don’t just walk off getting shot, no matter how Clint acted like it was nothing. 

To her relief, her partner seemed to kick himself out of it. She retreated to Clint's side and continued her watch behind them as they pushed forward. Passed the archway that opened into the east wing, which was similar to the main warehouse space in housing crates and containers of, no doubt, goods of questionable origin and destination, they were moving quickly toward the back, and came across the bottom of the stairwell that went up to the second level. 

Here, a particular case stacked at the end of a shelf that made up a row which ended near the stairs caught Clint’s eye. It was the type used for storing military hardware, a dark greenish plastic about a meter in length and a foot across. But it was the labeling that drew his attention. 

‘Advertencia, Peligro  
Explosivos de alto grado  
Tratar con cuidado’

Ah, excellent. Clint wasn’t fluent in Spanish or anything, but the warning regarding dangerous high grade explosives was clear enough. With a last glance around, he lowered his bow and indicated to Natasha to pass him the bag containing the C-4 that Clint had already cut into bricks, laced with det cord appropriately and primed with blasting caps, which were set to trigger in a similar manner as some of Clint’s trick arrows, controlled from the transmitter on his bow. Usually the dials there regulated the varying tips of the arrows in his quiver when the archer needed them, but it also allowed him to manually time and detonate explosive arrows on command. The detonators he was using worked essentially in the same way as the arrowheads- very handy. 

Natasha covered them both while Clint set about his work in an efficient manner, delicately removing from the bag an innocuous looking brick of the high density explosive and, working the case open with the blade of his combat knife, he secured it beneath the top without lifting the pallet- he didn’t want to disturb whatever explosives were in there. C-4 may be incredibly stable, but plenty of other mediums were not. 

Clint was actually fairly skilled with explosives, a little known fact, both in assembling bombs and creating various explosive mediums and compounds of different types and calibers and disarming them. Natasha, while never picking up that skill herself because she never had needed it, knew that it was no easy feat, either. Understanding the mechanics and the chemistry involved was not a walk in the park. It was actually when she witnessed her partner mix up an explosive medium in the field when they were in the middle of an op gone bad that she realized he was not nearly as stupid as he sold himself off to be. They had been working together as Strike Team Delta for four months maybe, and they were under siege in an unfinished construction site. In only a few minutes, she watched him pull together some plaster, petroleum jelly, break fuel, sodium nitrate fertilizer, and a compressed butane cylinder and turn it into a weapon. Then while the Armenian mobsters were dealing with a massive fiery explosion, they walked right out the back door. It was all actually quite impressive. 

Behind the back wall, the building infrastructure changed to a more industrial layout than open warehouse space. There were actual floors to cover, hallways and rooms to clear as they went, staircases ascending and descending on either side. Here, the alarm was more muffled- in fact everything was quieter- but the flashing warning lights remained. They never stopped moving forward, just kept pushing through. How many guards they encountered became a blur as they began operating solely on instinct, muscle memory, and trained reflexes. But they kept moving, staying on schedule as minutes ticked by like hours.

They moved on quickly, never stopping for more than a few seconds to place the remainder of the explosives in various locations as they left the front of the warehouse behind and loosely followed the trail of destruction and bodies Bravo team left in their wake. Some C-4 at important structural pillars here, at a gas line there, or the electrical junction box over there…

Now they were moving for the basement stairwell. As they did, their path again intersected with the much more direct path Moreau and company took. They saw the dead bodies, blood spatter, the charred and blackened concrete floor in some places, and the grenade shrapnel and dozens and dozens of bullet holes in the cinder block walls. It was once they were in the stairwell headed down to the basement level. The stairs were in the back corner of the building, a column running from the subterranean basement to the third level with doors on every landing labeled with the floor number. It was there that they encountered trouble.

Below them, the door to the basement level burst open, men rushing through it and taking to the stairs. There was no time and no where to duck for cover, so they saw Clint and Natasha as soon as the rounded the first flight of stairs, halfway to the ground level. Cursing, both Clint and Natasha, who were on the landing just inside the door from the ground floor, bolted backward the way they came, dodging a hail of bullets. The cracks of automatic gunfire were nearly deafening, echoing off the cinder block and concrete around them. Natasha whirled and returned fire, making them momentarily dive back down the stairs for cover, while Clint threw open the door- or tried to. Of course it was their luck for it to be locked from the inside, of course it was. 

“That’s a fire hazard,” Clint yelled in annoyance over the gunfire that began to resume as he grabbed Natasha by the elbow and pulled her along up the next flight to the second level, which was the only avenue of escape left open to them. They rounded the stairs, almost to the second floor landing, turning and firing weapons back down over the edge of the stairs at their pursuers to slow them down, when they heard the third floor door also burst open, slamming against the wall, followed by more Russian yelling and the thumping of boots against the floor.

Well shit. Clint slid into the wall in his haste, pulling at the door to the second floor, their one escape, but finding it too locked. If he had the precious seconds to turn his back or a paperclip or something, he could have picked the lock easily enough, but unfortunately, they had neither. 

“Damn it. Nat, cover the top, I’ve got bottom.” Clint spun, drawing an arrow as he did, not even registering or caring what type it was, and released it down the stairs. While his partner laid down cover fire, holding the men coming down the stairs toward them back, a small explosion and burst of fire consumed the landing below them, throwing their assailants back. That gave him an idea. A terrible, absolutely no good idea, but maybe their only shot… if it didn’t kill them. But bullets were whizzing by. They had no cover, and nowhere to run. Like fish in a barrel. 

So yeah, they were doing this.

With his boot he snagged the bag of the remaining C-4 which Natasha had dropped by her side in order to fire both weapons more effectively and slid it over to him, releasing two more arrows as he knelt next to it. Natasha caught his movements out of the corner of her eye, and knelt immediately what he was doing.

“How much is left in there?” she called over the gunfire and yelling, barely audible.

Another arrow found its mark. “Too much.”

She fired, grimacing as she felt a bullet graze past her thigh, and retreated back down the two stairs, returning to the landing besides him. “Do it!”

The guards were rallying at the bottom; he didn’t know how many, but more were coming in. He ducked away from the edge of the landing as gunfire came from the stairs beneath it. Sweeping up the bag, he pushed it away from him, beneath the railing, and over the side of the landing to fall directly down between the flights of stairs to the bottom landing, all of the guards below them within a five meter radius of it, Clint and Natasha only about twelve meters out, which was not nearly far enough. But he had seconds now. Clint rolled forward, kneeling behind the railing, and fired one carefully selected arrow directly down. He felt the familiar burn in his side, and a bullet grazed his forearm, another hitting his shoulder but being absorbed by the bulletproof vest he was wearing. The millisecond he felt the fletching slide past his fingers, he was diving backward, bringing Natasha down to the ground with him.

All Natasha registered at first was her partner tackling her and the hard impact with the concrete, then the deafening noise, though for only a second, then she couldn’t hear anything. Then it was the wall of force that shook the building, the heavy vibration of the air. Then worse yet was the flash of heat and roaring flames that stole the oxygen from her lungs and thinned the air. Then silence, and darkness.

The stairwell had acted like a chimney, directing the majority of the force and the resulting fireball directly up, practically incinerating everyone in the direct blast radius below at the bottom of the stairwell and everyone in its path upward. But that’s what you get when you fire an explosive arrow into a few bricks of C-4 in a confined space.

When she came to, she was on the floor, metal and rock debris and cracked concrete all around her. The stairs and walls were blackened and scorched, the air still thin, dry, and hot. However, Clint had protected her from the brute force of the explosion and the flying chunks of rock and twisted metal. He was sprawled over top of her, his torso and shoulders covering her upper body, her head tucked into his shoulder, pushed against the wall, shielding her from when he brought them both to the ground and as far away from the edge of the landing as they could go. When everything had stilled, and she realized what he had done, she pushed him off of her and he rolled to the side, lying on his back besides her. Her head was still spinning, and her ears had begun ringing so loudly it was like church bells inside her head, drowning everything else out. 

Natasha forced herself up to her knees, head spinning, everything too slow and clumsy. It was like a dream, a nightmare really, where she was displaced, watching everything from afar, unable to move fast enough. Her hands fumbled as she moved them down her partner’s shoulders, chest, checking him over for injury, and then checking for a pulse. He was alive, shockingly devoid of any serious or obvious injury, and he was coming to and regaining focus. The both of them were soot covered, uniforms a little bit scorched, bullet grazed, bruised and just a little bit tenderized from the explosion.

If she thought he would have heard her, or if she even could have heard herself, she would have yelled at him for being so stupid. She could take care of herself, and didn’t need him to put himself in danger to protect her. But right now, she had to get them up and moving. They weren’t clear yet. So, she added this incident to the list. She leaned back against the wall, allowing themselves 30 seconds to catch their breath and right their senses. 

Clint figured he really ought to get hit by a train some day in order to really know if it felt like what he imagined, given how many times he had used that particular bit of imagery to describe just how he felt. But with his luck, he probably wouldn’t even have to try- a train would just find him out of the blue one day. And good lord, he felt pulverized. But then, an explosion that ripped concrete and metal railing to shreds did just go off next to him. He couldn’t hear a thing, and for a moment was afraid the last of his hearing had completely gone out, but then what began as a low buzz became an entire orchestra inside his head, and he wished he was just deaf. And of course, everything hurt. He was pretty sure the wound in his side had torn open, and his already abused ribs were now most definitely fractured, if they weren’t already. But Natasha was sitting there next to him, and she looked alright, and there wasn’t anyone shooting guns at them, so, all in all, worth it. 

He felt around for his bow at his side, fingers closing around it and drawing it towards him. He then forced himself up onto his elbows, from there, into a sitting position, and with a bit of scrambling, was leaning against the wall beside Natasha, struggling to catch his breath.

She was signing something, hands moving slowly and without the usual precision, but he wasn’t going to hold it against her. They had just been blown up. 

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, eyes showing concern but the tight line of her mouth speaking more toward the fact that she was pissed at him.

He made an indecipherable noise, huffing out a breath, shoulders rising and falling in a ‘I don’t know’ kind of gesture. ‘I think so,’ he signed in return. ‘You?’

Okay, she was pissed. ‘You are an idiot.’

‘I know.’

‘You should not have done that.’ 

‘I know.’ He leaned his head back against the wall, watching her carefully. ‘But are you okay?’

“Yeah,” she said aloud this time, the ringing subsiding. “I am. Can you hear me?”

Clint adjusted his hearing aids, then pressed the heels of his palms to his ears, working his jaw. When he brought his hands away, he said, “Yeah, not completely deaf yet.” He winced, pressing an arm against his side where he had aggravated his injuries. 

“We need to move.” They heard people stirring up the stairs. The guards coming down had been similarly affected by the explosion, some even more so because they had not hit the ground like Clint and Natasha had. 

Natasha rose slowly to her feet, bracing against the wall. She then held out a hand to Clint, who took it, standing shakily, a pained noise escaping his throat, though she knew he tried to contain it. She took one of his arms and pulled it over her shoulders as they moved down the now structurally unsound stairs into the worst of the blast zone. Clint secured his bow to his quiver across his back and drew the gun holstered at his thigh with his unoccupied arm. Clint checked the timer ticking along on his watch, only to find the glass cracked and the time piece broken. Awesome. 

The bottom of the stairwell was gruesome- nothing that Clint wanted to see or describe. The door at the base leading into the basement was severely damaged by the explosion, blackened, scorching hot metal buckled outward, cinder block walls around it blasted apart and crumbling, so while it may have previously been locked, it only took a well placed kick from Natasha to send it falling off what was left of its hinges to the ground. They continued following the path Bravo team left into the basement, which was the most secured area of the compound, and no doubt where they would find their marks.

Suddenly, their comms crackled to life, and Moreau’s voice carried over them. "This is Bravo team, we have eyes on the package. Foxtrot, come in. We're abou-" Moreau's voice cut out suddenly, followed by a sudden uproar of yelling and gunfire that carried through the comms, and from the hallway ahead. Then he was back, this time yelling across the comns over the sounds of gunfire, but the comms were cutting in and out, damaged by the explosion. "Agent down-- hit -pinned down and tak-- -vy fire here. Foxtr-- converge on--” And with that, the comms cut out completely, though the message was clear enough, and the gunfire continued ahead.

Natasha tried to respond over the comms, but they didn’t get any response. They were both moving quickly then, jogging toward the sound of the conflict, Clint having recovered enough to move without Natasha’s assistance, and having retrieved his bow as well. They closed in on the origin of the gunfire, slowing down and cautiously checking what was around corners before they barreled into it. Finally, the saw the members of Bravo team pinned down by combatants flanking them on either side at the juncture of the hallway and the room they had ducked into. Moreau was kneeling on the ground at the doorway, and Kreiger and Fallow were standing on either side, trying vainly to pin down the approaching guards. Samuels was nowhere to be seen.

Clint slid to a stop, bow raised, and released three arrows at the guards nearest them that were pinning their agents down from around the corner.. Before they even slid to the ground, Natasha directed her shots at the other two, and then that side was clear. Moreau, Fallow, and Kreiger then turned their fire to focus on the other side of the hallway, and managed to drive back the men who had been making headway against them. The firefight continued for a moment, but after they dropped a few, the others retreated back around the far side. When it was clear, Clint and Natasha ran to meet them, moving through the doorway and into the cover of the room they had backed into when flanked on either side.

Fallow and Kreiger looked mostly alright, but a little shaken- then again, they were new to this. Natasha knelt down next to Moreau when she saw he was bleeding from a gunshot wound in his shoulder that had just missed the bulletproof vest. "How bad?"

"Not very, I'll be fine," he replied, grunting as he stood. “What happened to you two?” he asked, noticing their less than okay states.

“Ran into trouble in the stairway. Clint blew us up. All sorted out now.” Natasha responded matter-of-factly.

"What happened here?" Clint asked, eyes flicking back and forth along the hallway, leery of any more trouble. “Where’s Samuels?”

"We made contact with Vakhrov, were about to apprehend him when we were ambushed by that group. Samuels was on the outside edge, and stepped forward to cover me when I got clipped. Then, Miller came out of our blind spot, around that corner there, surprised us, shot Samuels. She fell, we were forced back, and Vakhrov ordered two guys to grab her. They dragged her off that way," he said, motioning down the left hallway. “I don’t know why. Leverage probably. Or he’s just a sick fuck.”

"And Miller?" Natasha asked, hate for the man growing.

"Dead. I got him." Moreau looked grimly pleased as he said the word, and directed their gazes to the far corner of the hallway where the former agent of SHIELD lay sprawled on the floor, lifeless and bleeding. “And I don’t give a fuck that Fury wanted him alive. Not now.” Well, that settled that problem.

Moreau, usually cool headed and in check, who had been all for taking both Vakhrov and Miller alive, had been the one to deviate from the plan. But then, Miller had made it personal when he shot one of Moreau’s team in the back, slimy bastard.

Natasha nodded in satisfaction, but knew the nature of their situation require immediate action and didn’t include time for gloating over their dead enemies. Her attention was pulled away from Miller’s prone body, however, when Moreau went to stand but stumbled back against the doorway, gasping, Fallow shifting to support him. His injury was worse than he had indicated. What was it with some men and pretending a bullet wound was a mere scratch?

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Natasha said, voice low and serious directed at Moreau, “but you’re in no shape to carry on. You’ll only slow us down, and you know it.”  
“I’m not about to leave Samuels behind-”

“We won’t,” Clint cut in. “Nat and I have got this. You two,” he pointed between Fallow and Kreiger, “get him out of here, and warn Foster about the change in plans. There’s still plenty of mercs up there, so you’re gonna need his help to get out of here clean. Clear out, collect Foster, the four of you make for the helicopter.”

"We'll go after Vakhrov and get her back," Natasha added. "Fallow, give me your comm- ours are busted. " She complied without question. “We’ll let you know when to fly in for evac.” 

“And Kreiger,” Clint finished, “not a scratch on her, or I’m holding you personally responsible.” Clint didn't wait for a reply.

He and Natasha took off down the hallway after the man that started it all.

The alarms had stopped sounding at some point, and there were no more flashing warning lights. With the hail of bullets having stopped flying, everything was eerily calm and quiet, tension heavy in the air like the calm before the storm. They trailed a streak of fresh blood that they assumed was from the injured Samuels. Moving quickly through the basement, but carefully watching for any traps or ambushes, they maintained a steady pace. It was so close to being over; they weren't about to mess it up now. They wouldn't let him get away again.

“It’s terribly hypocritical of me,” Natasha said as they cleared a room they passed through. “Telling Moreau to get out of here, when you can hardly breathe.” She threw a quick look his way.

It’s true Clint wasn’t in the best condition, his bruised and broken ribs making every rise and fall of his chest painful. “At least I can hold and aim a weapon. He couldn’t.” They went back to stalking after their target in silence.

Glancing around the corner they just paused at, Natasha drew back quickly when she saw two guards standing outside of a doorway at the end of the hallway, weapons raised and ready to shoot at the slightest movement. She was lucky they hadn't seen her. It was a dead end, and they had him trapped, but cornered animals became all the more deadly, and Natasha was concerned for Samuels.

They were both too far away for her to hit accurately with her handguns, which were not meant for long range, and gunshots would alert Vakhrov and his remaining guards of their presence. 

Natasha silently communicated the situation to her partner.

He nodded, and drew two standard arrows from his quiver. Nocking both, he drew back his bow, and leveled it horizontally. Stepping back and away from the corner a few meters at an angle, he then ran forward a few paces and launched himself forward, throwing his weight back at the last second. Falling to the ground and sliding out into the open just enough to clear the corner, he released the string and watched as the two arrows found their intended marks, buried deep in the hearts of both guards, who fell soundlessly.  
Clint rolled off of his back and pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, Natasha giving him a hand. Wow, he may not be a medical professional, but he had been poked, prodded, and yelled at by SHIELD medics enough before to know they would be having a tantrum over his current state, and would be insisting that he resign himself to a week of bed rest. He could feel warmth spreading from his side, his shirt clinging to him, blood seeping through. Obviously, broken ribs didn’t feel to good either. Hell, after this was done, he might just actually listen to the medics. He could use some time off, and nowadays, SHIELD ops and Avengers business meant more often than not, days free of people shooting at him and blowing him up were few and far between. 

He and Natasha hugged the walls tightly and approached the open door in front of them. Natasha straightened suddenly, and grabbed his arm, stopping him. He turned to look at her, and she was signing quickly to him.

‘Foster over the comm. Moreau and team clear, safe, headed for chopper. Problem, backup inbound. Four SUVs, more mercenaries. ETA six minutes, maximum.’ Knowing ASL did have it’s uses, like when silent communication was a necessity. But damn, that was not good news.

He nodded. They needed to grab Vakhrov and Samuels and get out of there before they had more jacked up, trigger happy guys with automatic assault rifles to deal with. Upon nearing the doorway, they stepped over the fallen bodies carefully and lined up alongside the wall. Peering through the door, Clint saw their target.

Inside appeared to be a surveillance and telecommunications room. There were desks of computers and monitors across the back in rows, with a long conference style table in the center. Vakhrov was pacing frantically around the table, yelling into a phone for someone to prepare a helicopter. Bleeding out slowly on the floor besides the table, crimson liquid pooling around her, they saw a very pale, hardly moving Agent Samuels.

They stepped through the door when his back was turned to them. "I know, I know! Just bring the helicopter, or I will personally see you killed! I-" Turning and seeing Clint and Natasha, blood splattered and soot covered, weapons raised and leveled at his chest, he backed away hurriedly.

"I'll pay you anything! Name a figure. Just let me get out of here! Come on now, surely we can come to some sort of arrangement-" He continued babbling and stalling, stumbling over himself as he stepped backwards, Clint and Natasha shifting forward after him. He was panicking, acting erratically, and then suddenly dove toward Samuels. Grabbing her by the vest and dragging her up with him, he held a gun against her head as he crouched behind her, using her as a shield against Clint and Natasha's raises weapons.

"Get back or I swear I'll kill her! Get back and drop your weapons!" he snarled.

Clint and Natasha stopped, but didn't back up or drop their weapons. With a quick glance at each other, Clint asked her to follow his lead. He lowered his bow, slotting the arrow back into his quiver, and took a small step forward, directing attention to himself. Natasha sidled back a few steps and kept her weapon raised, ready to take action if Vakhrov moved to raise his weapon at her partner.

"Put that down. We’re not here to kill you." Clint caught his attention with that, which was kind of he point..

"Hah, of course you are. SHIELD has been trying to kill me this whole time, and you are here to finish the job!" His hand was trembling as he held the gun tighter. Samuels' eyes flickered open for a moment, but then she went still again. She needed help, and quickly. It looked like she had been shot multiple times, at least once in the thigh, and once in the hip below the bottom of her bulletproof vest. Clint was concerned the wound to her thigh may have nicked her femoral artery- there was too much blood.

"We’ve not been trying to kill you, not now, even if we would have been in favor of it. SHIELD wants information from you. You want to make a deal for your life? Great, because we’re supposed to take you to the people who’ll take you up on that." Clint took a small step forward, but stopped when Vakhrov raised the gun a fraction toward him. Clint held a hand to Natasha, telling her to wait. Vakhrov hesitated, gun wavering. Eyes flicking back and forth between Clint and Natasha, who was ready to pull the trigger at even the slightest hint that he was about to raise that gun higher in her partner’s direction.

"Right, I go with you so you can torture and then kill me? I don't think so!" He was really starting to lose any measure of composure he had left.

Clint continued, voice low and deadly serious. "I get that you don’t have a reason to trust us, but believe me, if all we wanted was to kill you, you’d be dead. You have a few options. You can point that gun at me or the woman bleeding out in front of you, and force my partner here to kill you, which isn't great for either of us, but we’ll do it and paperwork be damned, or you can put that down, and come with us easily. You're a businessman; you know how the game is played. Work what you’ve got to your advantage in SHIELD custody. But if you kill that agent, or if you even try, I will put you in the ground, personally."

Looking at him, Clint could see the gears turning in his head, thinking rationally about his options. He had to know that if he resisted, he didn’t stand a chance of getting out of that room. Unless he was just stalling if he knew that more of his men were inbound. 

However, he started to lower his gun shakily. "I go with you, make a deal?"

"Yes. I don't have to like it, but orders are orders." Clint took another small step forward, and Vakhrov finally dropped the gun and scrambled backward away from Agent Samuels, who slumped to the ground.

Moving forward, Clint stopped at Samuels' side and knelt down beside her, taking the gun Vakhrov dropped and tucking it the back of his belt. Taking her pulse, he grew more concerned at finding it weak and thready. She was bleeding pretty heavily from a gunshot wound in her leg, while the steady stream from her hip seemed to have slowed. Clint let Natasha cover him and watch Vakhrov while he applied pressure to her leg, and sliding off her belt, her pulled it tightly around her upper thigh in the best tourniquet he could manage, which was fairly effective at stemming the flow of blood. He slung his bow over his shoulder, and then he pulled the unconscious agent into his arms and stood, grimacing, jaw tight as he stumbling slightly, his side burning at the pull and tension of muscles. 

He turned, stepping back toward his partner and the door. They had minutes before their unwelcome visitors arrived. For the first time looking back at Natasha, he didn’t like the cold, vengeful look on her face. Her jaw set, stance firm, she had yet to lower the gun leveled at Vakhrov’s face.

Stepping towards his partner, he stopped beside her, and lowered Samuels gently to the floor. "Nat," he said softly, too softly for Vakhrov to hear. "You have to let it go,” he said simply, voice gentle.

"So just like that, he gets a free pass," she said with venom in her words. "After everything he’s done, everything that happened...” She looked away from her target and met Clint’s eyes with her own when she said this. There was a hurting there, a softening in her cold, steely glare when she met his gaze. “He can’t just walk away from what he’s done.” To you. She wanted to say it as she read the pain in his face and saw it in his gait, one arm pressed closely to his side, blood seeping through the fabric of his uniform. But her throat felt tight and raw, her chest felt too constricted, and her eyes burned. "He deserves it. You know he does. It would be so easy..." 

"Nat, Natasha, this..." His eyes were just soft, concerned, forgiving. "This isn't you. Come on,” a sad smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Let;s get out of here, go home. Nat, hasn't there been enough death for today?"

Natasha's breath was heaving, and she didn't realize there were tears building in her eyes until Clint was there, gentle yet course, familiar hands on either side of her face, brushing them away. Then he was pulling away. As much as he wanted to comfort her, this was not the time or the place; they weren’t out of the woods yet. He delicately placed one hand over her own, lowering her gun. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, trying to forget about all of the pain and anger confusing emotions that had been coursing through her. All she focused on was her partner, the one person always there for her, who had never let her down, who she truly and deeply needed right then with every fiber of her being, who was pulling her closely as she hid from the world against his shoulder, just for a moment.

"It's over, Nat. It's done. Let's go home."

With a sniff, she swallowed everything down and pulled away from him. She took a breath, and had composed herself again, cold mask concealing her emotions and fears. She nodded briskly, and Clint scooped up Samuels once again. They didn’t have long to get out of there before they had more mercs to deal with, and Samuels really didn’t have time.  
Natasha turned back to Vakhrov, who had been sniveling in a corner. “Move,” she said sharply, indicating to the door with a drawn gun. He scurried out, and they followed, Clint struggling to cradle the injured rookie agent in his arms, Natasha taking up the back, watching for any trouble.

Besides for their prisoner vomiting in the corner when they came to the grisly scene at the bottom of the stairwell where they had had the incident with the C-4 earlier, the trip back to the main room of the warehouse was uneventful. They didn’t come across any more guards or threats that gave them pause. Natasha had made contact over the comms with Moreau’s team, who informed them that they had made it back to the chopper, and were bringing it around to meet them at the compound. 

Upon pushing through the back doors of the compound into the main cavernous space that they had first entered into, full of crates and shipping containers in nice organized rows, they arrived just in time to see through the blasted hole where the main doors were that there were multiple black SUV’s pulling up in front of the warehouse, more men just like the others spilling out. 

“Get back,” Natasha hissed at Vakhrov as she pulled him by the collar back behind a shipping container. Realizing that thoughts of escape were now likely passing through his head right now, Natasha cocked her gun and shoved it under his chin, forcing his head back to meet her eyes. “Any funny business, you do anything except exactly what we say, and I paint the walls with the insides of your skull. Are we clear?”

His eyes were wide and flickering with panic at her threat and very believable, murderous look, and he nodded in agreement as best he could under the circumstances, the barrel of Natasha’s gun still digging into the underside of his chin. 

Clint was breathing hard, readjusting Samuels, who was groaning and shifting in his arms, beginning to come around. He looked around for their best avenue of escape as men yelling in Russian flooded through what once were the front doors and fanned out in a line, organized and ready to sweep through the room. When they did that, there wouldn’t be anywhere to hide, and they couldn’t guarantee their prisoner staying quiet. There were at least two dozen of them, all fresh to the fight and armed to the teeth, whereas there were just Clint and Natasha on the other side, Clint wounded, carrying a slipping Samuels, and Natasha keeping a very unwilling prisoner, who just saw a very viable chance at escape, in check. 

Clint’s eyes fell on something he had noticed earlier in the back of the room, just a few rows over from them, and a hail mary or an idea- no doubt a terrible idea, but maybe not his worst today- worked its way into his head. 

“Nat,” he whispered, “have you ever driven a tank?”

Wide eyed, she followed his gaze to the monster at the back of the room. Under any other situation, she would have thought he was joking. She shook her head. No, of course she had never driven a tank. Why on earth would she have ever driven a tank?

“There’s a first time for everything then. I’m sure it’s not that hard.” 

After a flurry of exchanged looks, communicated hand gestures and broken sign language, their hands otherwise occupied as they were, they had agreed on a plan. Essentially, run across the short open distance to the back of the tank, Natasha laying down cover to give them the seconds needed to take cover behind it, as they were undoubtedly going to be seen, then scurry up and into the hatch. From there, they could lock it behind them, and they would have a little more time to figure out how to get it working, impervious as it would be to the assault rifles of the men around them. Easy enough, right? Except, only about a million things could go wrong. But the guards were getting closer, and time was not on their side.

Positioned, Natasha began the countdown with a raised hand. Three, two.. Vakhrov, who seemed to catch on, began shaking his head frantically. “No, no, bad idea, no-” One.  
Then they were running, darting between the crates, dodging flying bullets and wooden fragments and splinters as the crates and wood pallets around them were obliterated, torn apart by the wave of automatic gunfire. Natasha was holding Vakhrov like a shield in front of them, firing over his shoulder, and he, who did not appreciate being fired upon by his own men, was yelling at them to stop, screaming commands in Russian and a few other languages. In the confusion though, and considering that these man probably weren’t thinking, just firing at anything that moved, Clint seriously doubted that they realized they were shooting at the man who paid them to protect him and the merchandise they were shredding under automatic fire.

In was a short distance though, and soon they were behind the tank, a massive machine with plated armored sides meant to withstand heavy artillery fire. Natasha scrambled up the side first, keeping low behind the raised turret platform, hauling Vakhrov up with them. She yanked the level aside, pulling up the hatch, and threw him, yelling and complaining, head first into the belly of the tank. Crouching behind the hatch, she resumed fire, picking a few of the closer men off, forcing others to dive for cover. Clint followed, struggling to climb the side with Samuels still in his arms, but he managed, and slid inside, lowering the semi-conscious agent with him. Finally, Natasha followed, and she closed and locked the hatch behind her, and they were consumed by the darkness.

Natasha pulled a small flashlight from her belt, pointing it around the small confines of the insides of the metal east. Clint pulled Samuels into a seat in the back, and crouching, shuffled over the the driver’s seat. He had been in the cockpit of a submarine before- long story- and it felt really similar, except it was smaller, and the metal walls weren’t constantly groaning and straining under the weight of an ocean on top of them like a tin can, about to crushed at any moment. A slight, but noticeable difference. 

He found what looked like an ignition switch, and with a prayer, it hummed to life, lights inside the cabin turning on, dials and buttons on the front dash lighting up as well. “Ha, we’re in business now,” Clint said over the noise of the engine and the gunfire outside (evidently, they weren’t smart enough to realize that wouldn’t do shit). He could pilot just about anything, and the controls on the inside of the tank more closely resembled those of an aircraft than any land vehicle he had driven before, so hard could it be, really? Not very, apparently, because a few adjustments here, a gear shift there, and they were jolting forward.

Natasha held a hand to her comm, and informed the rest of their team coming in with the chopper that they were coming out under fire, and in a tank. “No, you heard me right. We’re coming out in a tank. Samuels and target secure.” The problem was, they would have to exit said tank, and lose the arm of dudes with the automatic weapons if they were going to board the helicopter when they came in. 

Natasha shifted over to what she guessed was technically the co-pilot’s seat, or just riding shotgun, while Clint steered them down the middle of the warehouse, knocking crates, shelves, and boxes on the edge of the aisle out of the way, or just crushing them as they made for the large hole in the front wall- not quite large enough, but they would make do. She stood, peering through the five inch thick, ballistic, narrow sliver of reinforced glass that provided a view out over the side of the tank.

“Oh, Clint, we’ve got a little problem. They’ve stopped firing at us…”

“And that’s a problem, how?”

“Because now they’re loading up an anti-tank guided missile.” To their right, the men had retreated, and were preparing a short range ground missile. The tank may have slat plating armor, but it wasn’t enough to protect them from being blown sky high by one of those.

“Oh, well shit, yeah, that’s a problem. Of course you’ve just got one of those lying around,” he glared back at Vakhrov before returning his attention to Natasha. “Any thoughts?”

“Umm, well,” she glanced back at him. “Just how much C-4 is out there?” They did still have a lot of C-4 laying around, didn’t they? It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.  
“Enough, probably. But we don’t have time to clear out.”

“I think we’re probably okay in here. Besides, we’ve already been blown up once today and survived. May as well go for round two.” Natasha raised an eyebrow, waiting for his approval.

“Hell, okay,” He reached around and passed her his bow, the handle of which had the transmitters for his arrows, as well as the detonators they had placed. “Bottom trigger, and best signal the others to stay back until it’s done.”

“Yeah, hold on, Kreiger’s coming in....” She paused to listen, a hand to her ear. “Their ETA is five minutes.”

“This is Foxtrot 2. Bravo team, please be advised, we’re coming out hot, two dozen mercs on our tail. Keep the chopper back until the dust settles and the flames die back when you are clear for evac landing.” 

Slow moving as they were, they were about eight meters back from the entrance. Hoping for the best, without further ado, Natasha activate the detonator. A second passed, and then the ground shook, the vibrations able to be felt through the tank. An incredibly loud but dull roar went off around them outside the tank, and brilliant white, then orange light spilled through the thin lines of glass situated up on the sides, which cracked under the force. The lights inside the tank flickered, but they kept moving, the tank jolting and tilting across the now uneven ground, but after a moment, it stalled, and the engine died. 

Almost as quickly as it came, the force of the explosion went, and it was replaced by silence. Th light that spilled through the slits in the side cleared, and turned to sunlight. The thick plating of the tank, which was essentially a mobile bomb shelter, protected them from the worst of the blast remarkably well, however the tank itself was damaged- how badly, they couldn’t tell. Another minute of silence, and then another, followed by another, until the sound of the thudding of helicopter blades, growing in volume, replaced the silence.

Clint and Natasha exchanged a look in the dim light. There was only one way to find out. Natasha crawled to the back, checking on Samuels’ pulse as she did, finding it thin but stable enough, and she stood as best that she could, pulling the lever back and lifting the hatch. 

Throught the cloud of grey and black smoke, and the falling ash, blue skies were visible. Sunlight poured into the cabin on the tank. Natasha stood straighter and peered out over the top of the hatch, spinning to look around. 

A smouldering shell, craters, and rubble were all that remained of the compound and warehouse. Segments of the building still stood- maybe a third of the west wing, the back corner, the east wall- but it was gutted and burning, everything fre blackened and blasted apart. The tank had made it up the edge of a crater, newly created, and stood on the edge of the blast radius, metal blackened and soot covered, a large concrete pillar having fallen across the front, pretty severely damaging it. Black ash and debris still rained from the sky. Natasha didn’t see any signs of life from the blast radius.

They piled out, limping and struggling as they were, Natasha supporting Samuels weight as Clint was no longer able to, struggling with his own injuries as he was. They pulled Vakhrov out last, when the helicopter with Moreau and the three rookie agents came down to hover off the ground near them. 

Fallow and Foster jumped out, going to take Samuels off Natasha and carrying her to the helicopter before Foster returned, handcuffs in tow, and led their prisoner into the back of the helicopter. Free of supporting Samuels’ weight after the other agents took her on board and began tending to her injuries properly, as they had not yet been able to, Natasha went over to Clint and put her arm across his back, leveraging his own arm over her shoulders. Exhausted, injured, and not quite sure what just happened, they hobbled over and collapsed into the helicopter.

“Had to be the gasline,” Clint mumbled, eyes closed and head leaned back against the door from where he sat on the floor, Natasha in the seat above him, neither moving from where they had originally fallen.

She made a sound of agreement. “Or whatever other munitions were in there.” No way in hell their C-4 had caused that scale of an explosion, but they would sure as hell take the credit for it later.

Moreau, who looked mostly okay from the front seat beside Kreiger, who was piloting, had asked them about something or other, but Clint wasn’t really listening, and he let Natasha fill in the details for him. He pulled open his jacket and maneuvered his bulletproof vest off of him with some struggling, his movement pretty significantly restricted by the mind numbing pain in his side. The cool air against his feverish skin felt pretty nice, and the humming of the helicopter blades drowned everything else out. 

In the air, high above the ground, leaving behind any other threats or targets or mayhem, they could finally relax. It was finished. They were headed home.

Before passing out, Clint cracked an eye, looking around at all of the haggard, exhausted faces in the cabin. Natasha was beside him, or rather in the seat above him, on the floor as he was, and she had a hand on his shoulder, a comforting bit of contact.

She looked down at him, flashing a small grin. “First time for everything, huh? We just drove a tank through the wall of a military compound, right in the middle of an explosion.”  
Clint smiled, adding, “Pay attention rookies. This is the most important part. I know a lot of it’s classified and all, but you most definitely will tell everyone, that we just did that.”  
“For your ego?” Moreau asked from the front, looking back.

“Of course not. The guys from wet works won’t believe us without witness corroboration, and we’ve got a standing pool going for most spectacular entrances and exits. And we just won by a long shot.”

A collective groan went up from the helicopter. “What?” Clint complained. “We’ll cut you in on it. Promise.” Natasha shook her head at him, a smile lighting up her face, and he realized that single moment made everything else worth it.


	24. Here's to Clearing the Air

Natasha cleared her throat, loudly, giving her partner sitting in the chair next to her a condemning side eye. When that didn’t work, she kicked his shin, and he jerked upright from where he had been slouched in his seat, nodding off. 

“What? Hmm? I’m good, I didn’t- yeah.” He shifted himself further back into the uncomfortable metal chair by pushing off the armrests, blinking and looking around. Oh, right, right, Director’s office- only place with these damned uncomfortable chairs. Natasha was looking at him, completely unamused, or at least she tried to look that way, but he saw that little twitch at the corner of her mouth that gave her away- to him at least. No one else would catch it.

He ran a hand through his already tousled hair, fingers carding through the unruly mess. Across from Natasha and him, Fury sat behind his desk, leaning forward over it, elbows propped on the unusually clear-and-free-of-papers-and-files surface. He was giving him that steely, intense one-eyed disapproving glare that sent even the hardest of agents running for the hills, but Clint got it enough to be used to it, and not at all fazed. 

“Sorry,” he blurted out, aware that he had drifted off. He couldn’t help it though- debriefs were so boring. Luckily, Fury seemed to be in a forgiving mood. 

“This,” he said, lifting a thin file from his desk and flipping through it idly, “is the final operation report you two compiled. And while I’m a big fan of being concise, it’s remarkably thin, wouldn’t you agree?”

Clint shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. I put a lot of thought into that-”

“It’s three pages, Agent Barton. And the last page solely entails a detailed description of how you two, and I’m just summarizing here, commandeered a Russian military surplus tank, and drove said tank out of an exploding munitions warehouse. Like, and I quote,” he lifted the file and read, “‘the walkaway scenes from Terminator 2 and Die Hard combined, only better.’” He gave Clint that I-can’t-believe-you-are-an-actual-adult look, and he knew it was Clint that was responsible for that part, no matter how both he and Natasha had collaborated to write up the report.

“To be fair,” Clint interjected, holding his hands up in surrender, “and completely honest, I may or may not have been high on painkillers when I wrote that- but Nat checked everything over, and she didn’t change it.” He pointed at his partner, who shot him a faux insulted look and kicked him again, harder this time, for selling her out. 

He had been in med-bay for three days after they got back; he was supposed to be there for a full week, but that didn’t pan out. He convinced Natasha to spring him from his prison, and he retreated back to his comfy apartment in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, with pizza, Lucky, and a season of Dog Cops. Of course Kate was happy to see him too, and greeted him by almost shooting him with an arrow when his arrival startled her from a nap on his couch. She was very apologetic though, so he didn’t mind, even if her apologizing included a big hug that didn’t do his healing ribcage any good. He was just happy to see her. 

“But man, the movie rights alone would get us- ouch! Nat, stop it,” he hissed, rubbing his shin. 

She rolled her eyes at him and signed rapidly, ‘You do not know when to shut up, do you?’

To that, he just snorted and slouched further into his chair, trying and failing to get more comfortable. 

Fury was watching them curiously, that I-know-all-I-see-all look on his face. He flipped the file to another page. “Compared to the rather lengthy and unnecessary detail regarding the tank incident, everything else is rather vague. For instance, you skim over the part where a fire was started inside the hotel here,” he indicated to a paragraph. “And never explain how it was started or by who. Care to elaborate?”

Clint and Natasha exchanged a look, Natasha covering her eyes dramatically. “In my heroic efforts to rescue-” she kicked him again, and he rephrased. “Save-” Again. He shot her a look. “Aid,” and he was spared this time. “To aid, my partner, who had been-” he jerked his leg out of the way, when she moved, preemptively avoiding her next attack. “Who was temporarily occupied and in need of assistance elsewhere,” Clint continued, being as diplomatic as possible with his word choices for the sake of Natasha’s ego. “And in my haste, I may have overlooked that slight detail. Sorry, afraid I can’t help there.” He shrugged, and Natasha snickered, head still lowered and averting her gaze.

Fury just shook his head, and closed the file. Natasha spoke up in her partners defense, saying, “Director, if I may, the majority of this operation was intentionally off the books anyway, as we were explicitly instructed. Given the,” she searched for the right words, “challenging circumstances, and the, questionable, measures we had to resort to when operating off said books and underground, we figured it was best to keep the final report focused on the important details.”

“Such as,” Clint continued, “stolen active nuclear launch codes?” He motioned to Natasha.

“Destroyed. Codes reset and secured. Potential nuclear World War III avoided,” she added helpfully.

“The man responsible for the theft, as well as international criminal misconduct and internal SHIELD corruption?”

“In SHIELD custody, likely indefinite confinement, in a holding facility in Arizona, sharing information valuable to SHIELD and various interested third parties.”

“And the leak inside SHIELD selling confidential, classified information, responsible for the failures of various operations, and the deaths of at this point an undetermined number of SHIELD operatives?”

“Dead,” Natasha said with a sense of finality, and a grim pleasure.

“And I recognize that’s not technically ideal, or at least not what the orders were, but as it notes clearly in that report,” Clint indicated to the file, “Miller engaged in open combat, seriously injuring a SHIELD operative, and forcing our hand.” Natasha nodded in agreement. “Incapacitation was not an option we could utilize considering the grievous risk of further casualties of SHIELD personnel,” Clint parroted, reciting a line he was too familiar with, “and so, more extreme measures had to be taken to neutralize the threat.”

“I would seriously doubt that’s exactly how it happened,” Fury said, shaking his head as he closed the file and put it away, “if Agent Moreau had not reported and taken responsibility for the incident himself. Him, I trust. You two,” he pointed back and forth between them, gracing each of them with a scowl that could churn butter. “Not so much.”

Clint shifted uncomfortably, not really because of the Director's piercing one-eyed gaze, or the trademark scowl, but because his ribs were just starting to heal properly- it had only been a week since they were flying the helicopter to a SHIELD base outside of the Moscow city limits- and they were itching like hell. "Yeah, but honestly by now nothing we say is gonna make you believe us any more," he muttered, fidgeting in his seat as he tried desperately to ease his aggravated side. 

Fury had finally managed to drag them both into his office kicking and screaming and forced them to give a full, three hour debriefing on a mission they would both rather push aside and wait until enough time had passed that they could reminisce over scars that were no longer fresh and painful and laugh about the ‘tank incident’ over drinks. Now though, Clint was hungry, annoyed, and god damnit did he want to rip his own skin off.

"What more do you want?" Natasha sighed. "We got to Moscow, we borrowed some cars- a lot of cars- actually, stayed at some crappy motels, got chased around by some angry Russians-"

"What other type of Russian is there?" Clint interrupted, smiling at his own joke.

Natasha punched him in the arm, continuing with her summary. "We were there when our undercover got shot, poor guy, we found the safe-house-"

Clint interrupted again. "Cool place, by the way. Yeah, that was the best part of the trip."

"Hmm, it was pretty nice. I bought, and proceeded to lose, a killer pair of shoes, all to save his sorry ass," Natasha complained. "Anyway, we went to the gala, shit happened, we may have caused a little bit of a panic-”

“Ah, yeah, one of those at the train station too maybe, before the safe-house bit,” Clint clarified.

“We wiped out the electronic copy of the launch codes, Clint got himself hurt- nothing new there- we got out, met Moreau's team, went after Vakhrov, some people died, there were some explosions-”

“And a tank. Can’t forget that. But just know that we generally kicked ass.”

“And then hauled Vakhrov out and placed him in SHIELD custody. Mission accomplished, cue the credits." She took a breath and sat back, watching Fury closely. Clint was smiling at her interpretation of their trip to Moscow.

"Well, I notice you left out the bit about the aftermath of the gala at the hotel, specifically the part about all of Russia thinking it was a terrorist attack," he said, raising his voice a bit in disbelief at how they could have screwed up so royally.

"Oh, shit," Clint said, looking away.

"What? No, they were saying it was gang violence, or a gas line rupture..." Natasha said, suddenly unsure.

"Well now they're saying it was a terrorist attack. Great job, agents," he said sarcastically.

"Oops." Natasha said begrudgingly. “Our bad.”

"Yeah, oops.” The Director did not look pleased, but then, he never did, so it was hard to tell.

"Admittedly, it may have been possible to handle that better," Clint said, scratching at his injuries through his shirt.

The Director rolled his eyes- well, eye- really fed up with Clint and Natasha's antics. He knew he would never get anything even half honest out of them as long as they were covering for each other, and they would never not agree with the other's story. It was all semantics with them, but then, they were effective at what they did, and they never strayed too far over the line. They were also right that this particular operation was complicated in a way that they usually weren’t, providing the two agents limited resources and even less time to do things entire teams of experienced agents would balk at. So, maybe he would let them slide on this one. They did their part, so he could handle the international discourse that resulted. However, that didn’t mean he was about to let them off easy, by any means.

Opening a desk drawer, Fury pulled out two folders and set them in front of Clint and Natasha respectively. "I’m glad you two recognize that. You can go. Complete these field assessment on Moreau’s team; I want them back on my desk by Friday, or I’ll have Hill find a mountain of paperwork to bury you both under.”

Making sure Fury noted their obvious displeasure, they took the folders and left. Outside of Fury's office though, they both heaved a sigh of relief. Fury's debriefings could break even the most resolute; no one got anything past that man. Hurrying away silently due to the nagging suspicion that Fury had cameras in the hallway outside his door and was probably watching, they didn't feel free again until they were in the elevator.

"Oh god, he knows. He doesn't know what he knows but he knows it's something," Natasha insisted.

"We'll be fine. It's fine. That was nothing out of the usual," Clint said, but there was absolutely no telling what Fury knew or thought he knew. "Look, forget about it. Even if he knew all of the gritty details, it’s nothing too damning.” Natasha just shook her head, and Clint sighed. “What do you wanna do for lunch?"

"Sinclair usually has something worth stealing in the break room," she offered.

"Sounds like a plan," he said.

Getting out on the common floor, which was just the first subterranean level, they made their way through clusters of agents of differing clearance levels and divisions. The common floor, so aptly named for the reason that all agents, clearance levels one through ten, was excellent for people watching and other entertaining endeavors, or for stealing food people thought they made safe by putting their names on it inside the refrigerators in the kitchen break room.

There, one could usually find some leftover takeout in the refrigerator, and usually, no one cared who took it, the exception being Agent Sinclair, a level seven control freak who liked to flaunt his clearance level to gain recognition and a sense of superiority over people with lower clearance levels. He was kind of a jerk, and actually made Clint feel bad for the rookies he traumatized. For those reason, Clint, who also enjoyed rubbing his own level eight clearance in his face, frequently went out of his way to screw with him however possible. If that meant leaving anonymous sticky notes in the fridge where the stolen food had sat, thanking him for being so generous, so be it. The passive aggressive letters that could be found there later always provided a good laugh. 

Lately, Natasha had been thinking about the little things about her partner that she loved. That was one of them. He helped to remind her that their lives were more that the horrors that filled them. He found it easy enough to find the weakness in the people around them- not serious things, more like personality flaws- and Clint taught her just how to push the right buttons. He helped her remember to take the time to enjoy the small things, like watching Sinclair yell through the halls, going red in the face, demanding the culprit that robbed the refrigerator of his food turn themselves in. Or, like making up outlandish words and terms just to use them in front of Steve, and after explaining them to Cap in great detail and convincing him they were real, waiting for days, sometimes weeks to hear him use them in conversation with others. The reactions were priceless. Yes, those were her favorite.

He grounded her, she supposed, pulling her back from the brink when it was needed, and she tried to provide the same stability and unconditional support in return. That was why they were so strong together, why they operated like a well oiled machine. It was because their partnership meant so much more than physically being on a team together. They just… worked.

Natasha leaned back against the counter top and watched as Clint riffled through the contents of the refrigerator. She had also been thinking lately, due to the numerous close calls and fear inducing, panicked moments when she thought she had lost him, that she failed to have his back when he needed her most, that she had no idea what she would do without him. She knew she couldn't go on as an agent of SHIELD without him by her side- he had been the one to bring her into SHIELD, to stand by her side every step of the way, risking life and limb and steady employment to give her a chance. He continued to stand by her side in the field. If she lost him in the field, she couldn’t ever go back to that. It was theirs, together. 

She needed him on a personal level; she knew that now. And that sort of attachment, that dependency, something she had actively avoided and been trained to shun her entire life, honestly freaked her out. But she had been thinking about it for the past week or so, and while she certainly didn’t understand it, she accepted it. If it meant keeping Clint by her side, so be it. She wasn’t about to run away from her one friend and partner in every way on this earth just because it scared her.

Phil Coulson had told her once that people like them either had very long, or very short careers, and that everyone had to figure out what it was that would keep them going, and where they had to draw the line. Clint was that for her, and she thought that maybe, she was that for him too. She may have just come to that realization, or maybe she was just now willing to acknowledge it, but some part of her knew that Clint had known this a long time. He was good with things like that, with knowing people and knowing himself, even if he didn’t do a damn thing about it, and sabotaged himself in the process. He was prone to doing that, which was yet another thing on the list of things she was concerned about him over. But he still knew her more than anyone. He knew what she needed and when, and also how to make sure she got it. He would never push her, never lead her into a situation she was unprepared for. She supposed that’s why it always felt like he was dragging his feet.

A little smile played across her face and lit up her eyes. Clint glanced back over his shoulder to look at her, and grinned when he saw her smile, raising an eyebrow. "What? It’s a simple choice."

"Sorry, what are we choosing again?," she asked, and couldn’t help but laugh at that stupid grin on his face.

"I said, Chinese," he repeated as he held a Chinese carton up with one hand, "or Indian?" he said, proffering another carton of Indian takeout.

"Chinese, definitely." After pulling them out, he popped them in the microwave for a few minutes, leaning back against the cabinets. A content smile played across his face. He looked relaxed, and happy, without any worries or concerns, and she realized it was a look that suited him very well. He was in such a good mood, in fact, that even a surprise appearance from their favorite level seven control freak didn’t shake that smile.

“Agent Barton,” he nodded, looking primped and preened and puffed in all his importance. “Agent Romanoff.” Another annoying thing he did- insisting on putting ‘agent’ in front of everyone’s names. He was tailed closely by a group of somewhat frail, timid looking young agents. Probably another team of rookies, farmed out and rotated around like Moreau’s to gain experience and figure out how things generally worked. But Clint didn’t blame them; if he had to spend his working days under Sinclair’s foot, he’s look like he was about to be sick too. 

“Sinclair, long time no see. How ya been?” Clint greeted him with a lazy smile, something others might see as a kind sort of acknowledgment, but something Natasha recognized as a sign he was just getting started, and no doubt looking to cause trouble.

“I’ve been well, actually. Recently, I was assigned a team of new recruits, so I’m just showing them the ropes- an important job. I see, however, that you haven’t been given any such responsibility. I wonder why,” he mused, looking down his nose at him. “

“Mhhmm, and a mighty fine job you’re doing. Looks like a tough bunch, you’re posse here. Has he tagged you guys yet? GPS collars? Does he feed you on schedule? Clean your cages?” Sinclair looked mortified, sputtering something about how inappropriate those insinuations were, but Clint just settled on a smug smile, winking at the wide-eyed rookies. “What’s the matter?” Clint interrupted. “Never seen someone not take shit from your fearless leader before. It’s alright guys, everyone knows Sinclair’s a joke. Trust me, it’ll get better when you’re rotated to the next overseer.” Natasha chuckled quietly to herself, though she was intent on staying out of the line of fire.

“Barton, I swear to god, I will report you for this behavior.” He was fuming, but it only served to draw more attention to their mid-kitchen showdown.

“You know what image I get in my head when I think of you? Now, hear me out: a middle aged, three times divorced, white soccer mom in the suburbs named Susan that passive-aggressively shames all the other soccer moms at the PTA bake sale because their cookies aren't made from scratch like yours. Does anyone else get what I'm saying?” That earned some snickers and muffled peals of laughter from passing agents, including some of his own rookies, but the face Sinclair made was more than worth it. 

“I would think, Barton,” he spat the name like it was poisonous. “That an agent of your caliber would show more maturity, and respect, instead of throwing childish insults around.”

“Sorry, I must had left my maturity and respect back at the Tower- ya know, Avengers Tower? When I was hanging out with my bros, my dudes, the guys- present lady exempted,” he nodded curtly to Natasha, “the Avengers?” Clint stepped forward, pushing off the cabinets and right into Sinclair’s personal space. “I don’t want or need any rookies to take care of, because I already gotta babysit one group of immature, volatile, oftentimes stupid and prone to poor decision making group of children. But trust me, my posse could still kick your posse’s ass any day, Sinclair.” The microwave dinged, right on time. “You’ll have to excuse me now, the food I’ve raided from the fridge is ready.” He winked again, and with Natasha having retrieved the steaming contents of the microwave, they popped off. 

“That was unnecessary, and childish,” Natasha chided, not that she didn’t enjoy watching it unfold.

“Yeah, most definitely,” Clint agreed. “But it was fun.” They rounded the corner, going to take a seat. "Aww, table, no," Clint whined when he saw that their usual corner table was occupied. "Where do you wanna go, then?"

"I don't know, my usual places aren't fit for eating."

He laughed at that, knowing she meant her portion of the gym where no one dared enter and the various secluded dark corners of the building where she occasionally retreated to be alone or to think. He had his own places though, and between them, they knew every inch of the SHIELD headquarters building, including the secretive parts not on any official blueprints.

"Okay, well, we can go to my office." he said, thinking. "Oh, or there's the roof. It's pretty nice up there."

"But of course we don't have access to the roof," she said automatically, giving him a knowing look. Anyone could be listening, and they were still pretty sure Fury had cameras and microphones everywhere. He ran a tight ship, and seemed to always know everything the second it was whispered. He just grinned and quirked an eyebrow at her. "Let’s go, yastreb." She rolled her eyes playfully.

They took the elevator up to the floor that was third from the top, which was as high as they could go without having to sign in with identification and explain why them being there was SHIELD business. He led them around to the emergency fire staircase. There was supposed to be an alarm that sounded if the door was opened due to the release of the magnet, but Clint fished a small refrigerator magnet he had snagged from the kitchen out of his pocket and slid it into place at the top of the door frame as he slowly pushed the door open, Natasha watching their backs for anyone who may come around the corner, except unlike last week when she was doing the same thing, she was armed with Chinese takeout instead of handguns.

They opened the door and took the column of staircases up to the top floor, where rather than entering through the door to the floor level, Clint unlocked a maintenance door with a bent paperclip and ushered her into a janitorial closet, closing the door behind them. It was tight, and as he moved past her, he brushed by closely, squeezing between her and the shelf behind him, looking down at her with a grin plastered to his face.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Reminds me of high school,” was all he said, and he brushed past. He pushed a shelf out of the way to reveal a trapdoor in the roof in the corner of the room with a rusted ladder running up the wall.

“Why do you say that?” she questioned, confused. She had never experienced the distinctly American cultural phenomenon that was the teenage years of high school, full of identity confusion, rebellious tendencies, nefarious activities involving restricted substances, a tedious social hierarchy, and daring romantic dalliances and conquests. She was lucky for that though Clint took it back the moment he thought it, considering what her alternative was.

“Hmm? Nothing.” She seemed fine with letting it go, and he wasn’t about to explain why he thought about high school, given how awkward that conversation would be. But hey, being in a place they weren’t supposed to be, a janitor’s closet no less, with a pretty girl? Who could blame him?

Clint climbed up the ladder to the trapdoor, and undoing the rusted latch- which he had unlocked a while ago and never bothered to re-lock, seeing as no one ever came up there- he opened the door, letting in the natural light and a soft gust of wind as he climbed out. Natasha followed suit.

She looked around the flat roof, a cool early autumn breeze ruffling her hair and carrying tendrils of it around her face and shoulders. They had spent many an evening camped out up there. It was a safe space they had carved out for themselves. No one came looking for them, no one bothered them, and they didn’t have to talk to anyone or say a thing if either of them didn’t want to. 

They had familiarized themselves with the placement of cameras and where they could move and sit that would leave no one the wiser. Taking one such route across the gravel layered ceiling, they made their way to their corner, which had an excellent view of the New York skyline. And at sunset? There was no place they would rather be, assuming they were together, that is. It was only a little past noon, but neither of them had anywhere else to be, so they might just end up staying there until dusk to watch the mirage of colors streak across the backdrop of New York City. Natasha understood why Clint liked it up here so much; it was quiet and serene, and it had an immediate calming impact on her every time she came. She could sit up there for hours, just listening to the wind and the sounds of the city drift by beneath them.

They sat there quietly for a long while, eating their leftover Chinese and taking in the scenery, just appreciating each other's company. The sun was high overhead, and the sky was perfect; a bright, clear blue with wispy streaks of pure white cloud ever so slowly drifting past as if the waves of an immense ocean.

They set aside the empty cartons, chatting idly about whatever came to mind, sitting in a comfortable close proximity, so much so that their shoulders brushed together.

“Hey Nat?”

“Yes?”

“So, I guess a person thinks about a lot of crazy things when they’re pretty sure they’re about to die.”

She looked over at him, a little confused at where this rather morose topic was coming from all of the sudden. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Well, I’ve had a few of those moments. Recently, in particular, more than I care for.” He leaned back, arms out behind him while he watched a plane cross the sky. Natasha didn’t know what to say to that. “You don’t have to say anything, it’s fine.” Without even looking at her, he knew her so well. “Back in Moscow, back at the party we crashed at the fancy hotel? Well, I realized, that if something did happen to me, Kate wouldn’t know. It’s not like she’s got contacts in SHIELD or anything, unlike everyone else who may or may not give a shit if I kicked the bucket.”

“I would tell her,” Natasha spoke up when he paused.

“Yeah, I know, and not to be depressing or anything, but we kinda work together, and when shit goes wrong, it usually screws us both.” 

“Right,” she nodded. There was always the chance neither of them would come back.

“So, this week, soon as i wasn’t flyin higher than a kite on whatever that was they gave me, I asked Katie if it’d be alright to put her name down on the next of kin form- ya know, for notification and all that if anything happens.”

Natasha smiled gently. “I’m sure she appreciated that. How did she react?”

“Oh, she cried,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I panicked ‘cause I thought I had messed something up, but then she explained that yes, I had better put her name down, and she was appalled that I hadn’t already, and that I thought I had to even ask her, and that if I ever did get myself killed, she was gonna kick my ass.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Sounds like her.”

“Yeah…” he trailed off. “See, I just wanna do right by the people I care about,” he said carefully, turning to look at Natasha, hesitating as if he wasn’t sure if he was overstepping something. When she only nodded, understanding, he continued. “And the thing is, there’s more than one spot for names on the form.”

“Oh,” she exhaled, smile tugging at her lips. He was dancing around it, taking the long route, but she saw where he was going. “Yes, go for it.”

“I didn’t even-”

“You’re terrible at this. Shut up, and put my name on the damn form next you get the chance.”

“Okay, thanks, but I was really going to ask what aliases you wanted me to put down. It’s not like next of kin forms are highly classified. They can get kicked down the ladder, declassified, made public record under some circumstances.” He gave her a lopsided smile, shaking his head at her.

“Oh, well, in that case.” She filled him in on a few more permanent aliases that she kept up with. A long while of intermingled periods of comfortable silence and idle conversation passed, and the sun continued its path across the sky, dipping lower toward the tops of the buildings and skyscrapers that stretched across the horizon.

“Are we still clearing the air?” Natasha blurted out, not really even expecting it herself.

Clint sighed, stretching back, lying across the roof, arms tucked behind his head as he reclined. “I guess so.”

“You’re not okay.”

Clint laughed at that, a rough bark at her abrupt, no holds barred statement. She looked deadly serious though. “Please, enlighten me as to what you mean, specifically. There’s so many things you could be referring to.”

“New York. This city. Not all that long ago. Loki.”

“Ah, right for the big one. And for a moment there I thought it was gonna be about daddy issues. Didn’t we have this conversation already?”

“No. I talked, you nodded and agreed and said a word here or there. Not a conversation.”

He sighed, staring up at the sky. “What do you want from me, Nat? To say it aloud? Okay. I know I’m not alright. I know there’s still stuff in there- stuff I can’t unsee, can’t undo- and I’ve gotta live with it. I know it’s not my fault, not really. But it was still me that did it. I remember every second, and I keep on remembering. Usually it’s nightmares, sometimes it’s other things- little things, stuff I can’t quite explain that just set me off. I know all that, and I accept it, because there’s nothing else to do about it, except move on. So please, bear with me, ‘cause I’m really tryin’ here, but you’ve got to understand, it’s not like there’s a switch I can flip in my head that’s going to make it better.” 

He stopped, suddenly feeling like he had just bared his soul to her. He had let down all of his defenses, and put the weapon that could destroy him completely in her hands, and now, he was trusting her to keep it safe, and to not use it to tear him apart.

“Okay,” Natasha said after a drawn out pause.

“Okay?” He asked, incredulous and confused and afraid all at once.

“Okay.” She shifted back and pivoted, laying down with her head pillowed on his abdomen- his uninjured side of course, keeping in mind to be gently- ankles crossed. They both watched the clouds drift by above them in silence. 

More time passed, the sky began to darken slightly, and the comfortable calm settled more naturally around them once more. However, no matter how relaxed and content he looked, Natasha could feel there was something that he still wanted to say. He had that look on his face, where his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly and he bit the inside of his cheek.

"Clint, what is it?" She sat up and twisted to face him.

"Nothing, just," he breathed out slowly, eyes opening to glance at her before staring up at the sky. "Nothing."

"Spill," she insisted. Now was he time for whatever it was, or, knowing him, he might never bring it up at all.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking…”

“You? No,” she gasped, smiling. He smiled a bit too, but it fell away quickly, and she felt something twisting in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong- not the time for jokes.

“Yeah, umm. About back in Moscow. At that warehouse, when we were planning the move on the compound.”

Oh boy. Natasha’s thoughts flew back to that moment when she signed the words she couldn’t take back. Had she admitted more than she meant to? Or wanted to for that matter? And how far had he read into it? She forced herself to relax, counting breaths, easing tension from her muscles. “What about it?” was all she asked, afraid of his answer.  
“You were pretty pissed- at me maybe, I honestly couldn’t tell- when the discussion of Miller and what to be done about him came up. I know what you wanted to do, and I get why. I do. And then, kind of the same thing with Vakhrov later. Miller was already dead due to circumstances when we found him, and I was there when we found Vakhrov- there to,” he searched for the right words.

“Talk me down from killing him.” She swallowed, throat dry.

“Sure.” Clint sat up, wincing a little at the pull of muscles, but he brought himself to eye level with her, their faces maybe a foot apart. “If I hadn’t been there, or, if Miller had been alive and you found him first…” He glanced away. “You can tell me to fuck off if you want.”

“No. Ask it.” 

”Would you have killed them? Against orders? Against protocol? With all the shitstorm that would come your way because of it?”

Natasha took a shaky breath, looking away and off into the distance. “I guess it depends.” She looked at Clint, afraid of what she might see, but there was no judgement, no condemnation in his eyes. Only a softness there. “If you weren’t there, you wouldn’t have been at risk.” She couldn’t bear to meet his gaze any longer, and looked away.

He took a breath and exhaled, long and slow. He leaned into her, reaching out and with a gently hand pressed against her cheek, turned her to face him, their faces inches apart.

“And if I was there,” he said softly, but there was no lingering question in his eyes any more; it was more like confirmation, like he knew this all along, but just needed to know for certain. Maybe, back at the warehouse, he had read into those two words she had signed, 'You are,' more than she had intended. But they were true. He was worth it to her. Maybe he got that. 

“Yes,” she answered definitively, removing any doubt. “I would have killed them. For what they did- to you, to others, but mostly to you. Because, I want to do right by the people I care about,” she repeated his own words from earlier. “I can’t stand to see you hurting, and when you are, it’s like I don’t know how to keep it together. Rules and protocol and ethics be damned.” She hadn’t meant to say so much, but once she started talking, she couldn’t stop herself. “Because I care about you, you stupid, self-sabotaging, injury prone, reckless, selfless, moronic man. Honestly, caring about you is the worst thing that’s ever happened to my health. You’ll give me grey hairs, and ulcers, and, why the fuck are you grinning like that you stupid idiot? I’m being serious. Maybe you don’t give a damn about you, but-”

He had smiled, eyes bright and looking way too happy for all the insults she was hurling his way. He shook his head, and then moving the hand that was gently brushing over her cheek to the back of her neck, he pulled her toward him, closing the gap between, but the slight tug was all she needed. His lips closed over hers, cutting off her rant midway- and it was unfortunate because she knew everything she was going to say. It was quality material, but now, she could care less about it, and forgot, the only thing on her mind how Clint was right there, kissing her.

She returned it readily, heart soaring in her chest, moving to her knees so she was slightly above him from where he sat, her hands going to his shoulders. One found its way to the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him tightly against her, and the other traveled around behind his shoulders, trailing up his neck and into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Clint moved with her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer while his other hand traveled to her neck, gently holding her face close to his own. She moved to straddle him, kneeling on either side of his hips. As he pulled her closer, his face tilted up to meet her, she deepened the kiss.

It may have been slow, even hesitant at first, but sparks were flying and Natasha felt herself pulled along, completely willingly, into something more. She found herself sliding into his lap, facing him, her hands roving over his shoulders and chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly between clenched fingers. She chased her way into his mouth, both fighting for control, teeth biting, hands pulling each other closer, even though they were already pressed together so closely together, she could feel his heart beating rapidly against her own as they spun out of control, losing focus of everything around them. For all they knew or cared, the sky could have been falling around them, but even that wouldn't have mattered. 

It was fast paced, dirty, forceful- what she might later describe as violent, but that suited them just fine. Clint’s hand marked a burning trail down from her neck to rest at her hip, going lower down to the outside of her thigh, pulling her hips closer. She slid forward, lowering herself into his lap, pulling a low groan out of him as she did so. She found that she quite liked making him do that. His eyes fluttered open, and she moved away from his lips, biting and licking along his jaw and then down the column of his neck as he gasped for breath. She tugged his head back, one hand yanking sharply at his short hair, giving her more access. He seemed fine with letting her have her way.

When she made it to his collar, sucking lightly and scraping teeth over his skin all the way down, she had him panting, hands buried into the fabric of her jacket at her sides. She rolled her hips into him, blatantly, most intentionally, grinding down. 

“Jesus, Tasha,” he gasped, shivering, fingers digging further into her jacket. She worked her way back up his neck, more quickly this time, delighting in the feel of the light stubble at his jawline scraping and dragging against her lips. She hovered over his mouth, pausing for breath, the reality of the situation they had gotten themselves into rushing back to her with a stark clarity.

“Well shit,” she mumbled, still pressed firmly against him, though she stopped moving, gentle puffs of warm breath tickling each other’s neck. As right as it felt, and as much as she wanted it, she had yet to stop and ask herself what in the fuck she was doing. They worked together for christ’s sake. There were rules forbidding this kind of thing. And was he even-

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice raw and low. Then he was panicking. “Aww, fuck. I’m sorry Nat. I don’t- you don’t have to- not- shit.”He was pulling away from here, fear in his eyes. Fear that he had fucked up big time, ruined everything.

“Stop,” she ordered, voice firm. She held onto his jacket collar, keeping him from pulling away completely, and dropped her head into his shoulder, panting lightly. “This is when the self-sabotaging part kicks in, and you ruin it. So, let’s clear that out of the way. I’m okay with this. I want this.” She lifted her head to meet his gaze, his pupils blown wide into dark discs. “But only, if you do. So are you,” she took a breath, “okay with this?”

His chest rose and fell beneath her hands rested on top of his shoulders. He blinked, opening and closing his mouth a few times slightly before simply snapping it shut, nodding slowly, not trusting his mouth to say the right thing. He swallowed, watching her carefully, heart still racing in his chest.

“Okay, then just, don’t think about it,” was all she said, and she collapsed back into his solid frame, head buried into his shoulder, arms around his neck and draped over his back, his arms going to wrap around her sides, holding her tightly. There were too many reasons why this was such a horrendously, horribly, truly awfully terrible idea. Too many repercussions, too many pitfalls, too much risk. If either of them thought about it too much right then, no doubt they would realize that, but if there was one thing Natasha did not want to do right now, it was think logically. Natasha felt something strange in her heart as it leaped inside of her. Everything about it felt so right, so complete, but yet it was all so foreign. But then, in the words of someone she cared way too much about, there was a first time for everything- even truly terrible ideas. And maybe, just maybe, they might work out in the end.

They stayed that way for some time. Eventually, the light began to dim, their pulses slowed, and they relaxed into each other’s loose grip. 

Clint sighed contently, nuzzling the side of her neck. Then he paused. “Nat…” he said, voice low, cautious, tinged with fear again.

“I said don’t think about it,” she snapped, tightening her grip.

“I know, but-”

“No ‘buts’.”

“I’m just saying-”

“What, in god’s name, is so important right now?” she yelled, jerking back and looking a shocked Clint in the eyes.

“You better not have left hickies all down my neck. I’ve gotta walk back through the building, you know.” He reached up and scratched the back of his head self consciously, in a very Clint-esque manner.

Natasha shook her head, at a loss for words, and then she was laughing. She couldn’t help it. She doubled over, burying her face in his shoulder again, her whole body shaking with laughter she tried to muffle. The stress, the panic, the confusion, the reality of the situation, it all just hit her in the chest like a tsunami, and the levees broke. He just smiled, holding her to him, shaking his head at her uncontrollable spasming. 

“Damn, woman. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand you. I might just die trying, though.”

“Shut up, please,” she got out between heaving breaths. “Just stop, talking.”

And he didn't need to say anything. Like in all things, they didn't have to speak a word, or even exchange a sign or a gesture, or even a look. And they both knew exactly what the other was saying. The meaning of Clint’s words were clear enough. Maybe they knew all along. Maybe they had just yet to accept it, or to put a label on it. Or maybe they were both just too scared, to unwilling to risk everything they had for a chance at what they could have. One thing was certain though. They were in it together. They were there, wrapped in each other’s arms, having spilled the darkest parts of themselves, shined a light on their greatest fears- rejection, among them- and they were still there. Neither of them was running away. If that meant anything at all, if that said anything at all about them- it spoke in volumes.

They sat there, just knowing, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the rest of this series!  
> Don't forget to leave kudos or comment if you haven't or idk bookmark it if you want to.   
>  Also, follow me on tumblr: flight-on-broken-wings

**Author's Note:**

> Give kudos, leave comments, and hit me up with all your lovely clintasha feels and thoughts!


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